Lyrium Blue Gaze
by plutospawn
Summary: Varric slumped down in his bar stool as if he had never been so rudely plucked from it. This wasn't a story that he wanted to tell. A post-game exploration of the decay of Anders and Hawke's relationship.
1. Chapter 1

Dimly lit lanterns and the dull smell of pine brought him back. Too many chairs clustered around tables, too many stools clustered around the bar, the swish of Norah's skirt as she bristled by. Varric Tethras breathed in the stale air as he nursed his jack of ale. Human make, there was once a time, long ago, when he'd criticize the hops and jeer at the inferiority of all other beverages compared to a good dwarven stout. But then he'd actually tried a good dwarven stout. Despite his heritage, Varric was a surfacer through and through and he shamefully lacked the stomach for the flavors of his motherland.

The real dwarves could keep their drink. Varric was special. Varric smelled of sunshine and daisies. He took a long swig of his human ale.

It had been nice of the Seeker to deposit him back at the Hanged Man. His home away from home, his favorite haunt. Kirkwall may have been in shambles, but it certainly wasn't too war torn to lack drink. His forearm grazed across the gouged out initials Isabela had left in the bar as a reminder. She'd left for good maybe a year ago on the ship she'd so eloquently named, "The Champion." She'd smirked and commented on how now she too would be riding Hawke and then she was gone amid a flurry of innuendos involving the "poop deck." He snorted. It was so like Isabela.

Of course, Cassandra Pentaghast's sudden appearance was disconcerting. As far as Varric was concerned, anything more enclosed than the walls of the Hanged Man was too claustrophobic for his tastes. He'd discovered that years ago in the Deep Roads. Trapped, the idea of no back exit, no plan B did not sit well with him. So he had crawled and clawed and fought his way to the surface, just as the darkspawn fought their way out of the broodmother's womb.

Varric finished his drink.

He wanted to believe that so much had changed. To the point where all the stories he told were nothing but stories; their heroes and villains alike long forgotten whispers of memory and hearsay. Nothing ever changed. Someone was cackling drunk in a corner and Norah rubbed her lower back when she thought no one was looking. Varric slumped down in his bar stool as if he had never been so rudely plucked from it.

Of course Blondie showed up. Why not? It was ballsy of him, Varric had to give the kid that. He'd grown his facial hair out, something beyond stubble, but too spotty to be considered a beard, and wore a simple shirt and pair of trousers. A testament to the sense of humor of whatever creator there was that Anders managed to avoid being apprehended by the Grey Wardens all those years, he supposed.

Or maybe they were just content to let him remain missing from their order. Varric chuckled to himself.

"Varric, I need-"

"I can't protect you anymore." Varric gestured for a refill. "Your actions have seen to that. I can't just bribe a few Templars or talk your way into a syndicate's good graces."

"I know that, I just-"

"Then what?" One drink was not going to do. Amber ripples against the lip of waxed leather. "It's too dangerous for you to show up here just for the ambiance."

"I need your help." Anders slammed his open palm down on the bar and leaned over Varric. His voice dropped to a near inaudible mutter. "Esther left."

Varric grinned upward, his lips tight, his face warm with drink. "Serves you right."

"This is serious!" Anders' shout lanced over the din of the other patrons and had it not been for the careless wave Varric gave to Norah, the other man probably would have been escorted out. He lowered his voice. "I think it has to do with her sister."

"Do you?"

"You're playing games, but this is serious." The other man's head jerked around suspiciously at the other drunks in the tavern before he sat down on a bar stool. "Those bastards made Bethany tranquil."

Varric tried for a sympathetic look over the lip of his ale. His eyebrows kept sneaking down to angrier expressions. "Before you jump to conclusions, it might be better if you knew the whole story."

"What else is there to know?" Anders demanded. "I saw the mark upon the girl's forehead with my own eyes. Hawke's last remaining family and they do that to her? No wonder Esther left."

"Sure, I see how that's easier than believing it might have been you," Varric replied.

"I beg your pardon..!"

"Don't you think Hawke would stop at nothing to free her sister if Bethany was in danger?" Varric ran his fingers across the initials in the bar. They'd been rough when first carved, but had since been rubbed smooth.

Anders had that slack-jawed exasperation expressed perfectly across his features, complete with the useless flapping of his mouth. "She was too late!"

"Like she always is?" Too late for Carver, too late for Seamus, too late for Leandra. Too late for Anders, that asshole. "Did you ever once consider that it was what Bethany wanted?"

"You haven't seen her, you don't know what the rite of tranquility can-"

"I have seen her."

Something in Anders' eyes wavered. He swallowed. "How can you accept that so calmly?"

"It was what Bethany wanted." Varric let the words settle between them as he drained his ale. "The Circle was the only place she'd ever felt safe. Unfortunately, that all changed when someone blew up the Chantry. The kid grew up as an apostate and the circumstances terrified her. With the civil war, she didn't want to get butchered by a Templar, and she didn't want to get cornered and forced into blood magic or turn into an abomination."

"But no one would ever willingly, not in their right mind would they wish for tranquility..."

"Bethany did." The sun had set and the moon struggled to light the world in its stead. Varric could still smell sunshine in his hair, sometimes, if he closed his eyes. Stupid, stupid kids. "She said Hawke had showed up, thought that she was going to rescue her, but ended up getting a chance to say goodbye, instead. She gave Bethany her blessing, by the way."

"I just..." Anders was a lanky, overgrown child as he slouched on the bar stool. "I just want Esther to come home."

"Did you think about that when you used her trust in you to murder the Revered Mother?" Varric asked.

"You cannot possibly judge me any harsher than I judge myself." Anders' eyes narrowed. When was the last time Blondie had a good night's sleep? "What I did was for all mages, and my rewards are hearing her sobs at night and knowing that her sister would prefer tranquility to living. There are so many ways I've wronged the world and the only right thing in it has vanished from my life."

Varric stared at Anders and Anders right stared back. He shrugged and frowned at his empty jack. "I wish I could help you."

Anders head fell into his hands. "I miss her so much."

"Me too, Blondie," Varric murmured. "Me too."

They didn't have much else to discuss. They'd never been particularly close. Anders stumbled out of the Hanged Man with that same frantic, lost look that he'd entered with. Varric refilled his jack for a final time that evening and shook his head. Poor, son of a bitch.

He sipped that last drink slowly. With a nod from his head Norah disappeared upstairs, a crude remark ready on her lips for anyone that might try to distract her. The ale always became less bitter the more he drank, almost flowery.

A lifetime on the run had made her footsteps inaudible, but the shadow that fell over him was telling. "It's alright," he told her. "He doesn't have a clue."

"I always could count on you." Hawke leaned up against the bar. "Thanks, Varric."

He waved a hand. "I just wish you'd have come sooner."

She looked at him with those lyrium blue eyes. "How was he? Did he ask about me?"

"You don't want me to answer that honestly."

"Tits." Her hand made its way across her stomach idly. "You always did lie so prettily, Varric. Lie to me? For old time's sake?"

"You know, I was thinking about that game we used to play up in High Town," Varric said. "Staring at the unwed noblewomen and trying to decide if they were just fat or pregnant."

"I want to see him." Her mouth twisted into something that was supposed to be a smile. "I don't want to hurt him. I don't want to hurt, anymore."

"Hawke, really?" Varric pushed his drink away. Anything to avoid that lyrium blue gaze. "When did you turn into a bundle of laughs?"

She shook her head. "I won't. I have something more important than him, now. More important than me. I won't be around someone who uses and betrays those he claims to love." Her last bit of bravado spent, she laughed. "But I really, really want to."

"It'll be okay."

Hawke exhaled and deflated, a slouched body against a bar. "I should probably go back to him."

"Hey!" Varric snapped his head toward her. "We can do this."

"No." She smoothed a lock of her black hair behind her ear. It promptly fell back out of place. "It's not fair to him. I should probably go back, it's still not too late, I-"

Varric placed a hand on her shoulder. "Hawke. We can do this."

And he had told Cassandra Pentaghast that Esther Hawke was fearless. Shoulders hunched, lower lip trembling and a belly that wasn't quite yet showing, the Champion of Kirkwall cowered with one of the last friends she possessed. This wasn't a story that Varric wanted to tell.

"My mother would have known what to do..." She noticed his hand on her shoulder and leaned into it. "Can we?"

He squeezed. "Of course."

"Maker knows it'll probably be a mage."

"So we won't tell Fenris if that's the case."

"I just don't want to fail. I can't afford to fail at this."

Sunshine and daisies. When Varric was little, he used to stare at the sun until he couldn't see straight, but then, Varric had always been special.

"I won't let you," he told her. "We can do this."

Light from the full moon trickled in past the oiled sheepskin that covered the windows. The furrows in her brow began to soften. "Yeah?" Her shoulders may have been slight, but they were sturdy.

He grinned. "Yes, Hawke. We can do this."


	2. Chapter 2

When little Ina Beth Hawke's hair came in red, her mother cried.

Not in staggering, melodramatic sobs, mind you. The Champion of Kirkwall had always been too pragmatic for great displays of uncontrollable emotion. But after the babe had been born a healthy, pink, squalling girl child, her mother had insisted that the peach fuzz atop Ina's head meant that she would be blonde, just like her father.

And so Ina had been blonde for the first year or so. Varric had thought the emphasis on hair color a touch odd, but then again, most things that surrounded one Esther Hawke tended to be so. He had more important things to worry about, like the Chantry and their Seekers and keeping his friend and her child tucked out of sight, away from harm, away from the father.

But the child grew and began to crawl and finally walk. And her hair grew in earnest, thick wavy locks that shone like copper under a midday's sun. There was no denying it, just as there was no denying the twitch of panic and cold fear that hid behind her mother's smile.

Varric returned to the small house he had secured for them in the country one night and found Hawke there, pathetic, with a hand clamped over her mouth to smother the little hiccuped whimpers. If he had been a hero, he would have rushed to her side and soothed her. But he had never chosen to write himself as the hero in his tales for a reason. Instead, he stood paralyzed in the doorway, unsure of what to do.

Hawke, for her part, was no good at crying. It just didn't suit her. When she noticed him frozen in the doorway, she cupped her hands across her face like a mask, like that would erase the tears and the swollen eyes.

So, he cleared his throat. That perfect little time waster to distract the crowd while he gathered his wits. Maybe he could pretend to be idiotic enough to not notice her blotchy skin and dripping nose. He chose to stare at the dying wick of a candle on the table instead, not at how electric the blue of her eyes looked when they were surrounded by bloodshot veins.

"Everything okay, Hawke?" A stupid question, he knew. Father dead, brother dead, mother dead, sister tranquil. On the run from the man you love, because you loved your child more. Perhaps a better question would have been how had Esther Hawke managed to not drown the Free Marches in her tears?

"Bugger." She scrubbed at her eyes and snorted the mucus back up her nose. Her mother would have loved how she sat atop the kitchen table, her legs askew with unladylike nobility. Hawke giggled. "Yeah. we're fine, Varric. Everything's brilliant."

"We should be in a tavern," was all he could think to say. There would be a life, then, a hum behind them. Ale and laughter and other people's problems. Instead, the only sound to pull him from her gaze was the chirping of crickets outside.

Hawke shrugged.

Varric hazarded a step forward, into the kitchen and raised a finger. "Let me guess."

"She's a damn, blasted ginger."

His finger dropped. "You got me there, Hawke." He cocked his head to one side and ran his tongue over the top of his teeth. "That was not on the top of my list."

"You don't get it." She shoved herself off the table and grabbed a chair. The candle flickered along with her movement. "You don't get what that means."

"Sunburns in the dead of winter?" Varric walked over to the blackened kettle on the hearth. Still warm.

Hawke sat down and continued to rub at her face. "Ina's a mage. It's an Amell thing."

Varric poured himself a mug of tea and joined her at the table. Of all the things sorely missed since their scramble out of Kirkwall, Esther had often bemoaned the lack of servants. Not for the cleaning or appearance of aristocracy, as Hawke had been raised a peasant and was more comfortable in a dirt-floored hut than palace, but because of the food. She had spent all of her childhood mastering daggers instead of mutton and as such, it was a near crime, the bland atrocities that little Ina had come to accept as meals.

"An Amell thing?" Varric took a sip of tea. Elfroot and some other flavors he couldn't discern. "This I've got to hear."

Hawke let loose a long sigh before she snatched the mug from Varric. "The Amell family line has always been cursed with magic," she said. "I don't know why, but mother insisted that any Amell born with red hair was touched by it. As soon as a child's hair came in, they'd be shipped off to the Circle and never be heard from again." She drank his tea and passed it back.

"But Bethany wasn't a redhead."

"Our father, Malcom Hawke, was also an apostate," she said. She had a far off smile on her face. "With the blackest hair I'd ever seen. Could you imagine Mother? So convinced her children were normal because they all had dark hair like their father and then Bethany accidentally set Carver's tunic on fire. I remember her crying, unsure of which child to comfort more."

So her mother had cried as well. And now it was Hawke's turn. Varric turned back to his tea.

"You sort of expected this though, didn't you?" he asked. There had to have been something better to drink than lukewarm elfroot tea. "I mean, if I take a qunari into my bed, I can't be upset if my sons are too tall to walk the Deep Roads."

There was a flash of white teeth in the candlelight as she grinned. "Bianca would get jealous."

"That she would," Varric said and he gave Bianca a pat for emphasis. "What's your plan, Hawke?"

"I don't know." The red was beginning to fade from her eyes, but her stare was no less intense. "I'm not a mage. I don't know how to train her, I don't know how to safeguard her."

Varric opened his mouth, then shut it. If it had been even three years ago, then maybe... "Funny, we used to be swimming in mages."

"Only when it's inconvenient, Varric." Hawke chuckled softly. The mirth drained immediately from her face. "I refuse to repeat what we went through with Merrill. Not with my daughter."

"Mmm." Despite the darkness of night, Varric was reminded of a childhood memory where the sun warmed the back of his neck. Bartrand would always forsake the fields of flowers outside in favor of their home where he could close his eyes and pretend he was back in Orzammar. Not Varric. Varric would run through the flowerbeds, so their leaves and stems would brush his calves. He could sit with fistfuls of daisies, pluck their petals and blow them into the breeze until there was nothing left.

That wasn't entirely true. He managed to keep some things. He still had a tatty ball of string tucked away in his travel sack.

He set the half-finished tea on the table and intentionally forgot about it. "I have an idea, but I don't know if you'll like it."

"I will not make her tranquil unless she's old enough to understand the implications and truly wants it."

"I'm glad I'm not suggesting that, then," he replied. "We need help. Who is the one person we can turn to?"

"Anders?" He hated that her voice filled with hope at the mention of Blondie's name.

"No," Varric said. "I meant Cullen."

"Cullen?" That stopped her dead. Hawke's nostrils flared. "You mean the templar?"

He shrugged. "He's reasonable. He understands mages are people, too. He even helped you when Meredith went loopy. Even with Kirkwall belly up, Cullen has connections to what's left of the Ferelden Circle, he might know somebody." When Hawke didn't respond, Varric sighed. "I knew you wouldn't like it."

"That would mean going back to Kirkwall," she said, finally.

"No." He shook his head. "It would mean that I go back to Kirkwall while you and the half pint stay here, safe."

"Varric, it's not fair that you put yourself in danger on my behalf-"

"It's not like Anders would still be in Kirkwall, anyway," Varric said. "He's too smart for that."

"I hope he's too smart for that," Hawke breathed. She reached over and gave his knee a pat. "I'll pack up and we can head out first thing in the morning."

"No." When most people had disagreements, they would get angry and argue, maybe scream. Varric had a tendency to smile and feign civility. His mouth was stretched so tightly it felt as if his face would split in half. "We're doing this for the safety of your daughter, it's insane to put her in harm's way just to sate your curiosity about Anders."

"We've stayed in this cottage too long, already." Hawke hopped to her feet and ran her hand across the tabletop as her eyes scanned the kitchen for belongings she deemed necessary. "It's dangerous to stay stationary, too, Varric."

"It's not as dangerous as traveling to a city where everyone recognizes you as the Champion with a baby apostate strapped to your back."

"I've grown my hair out."

He slapped a hand against his forehead. "The tales I've told on your behalf don't focus on your hair. Your eyes are your identifying feature."

"Hair of the blackest night frames blue eyes that glow like pure, unfiltered lyrium." She rolled her eyes. "Yes, yes, get a few pints in you and you'd tell anyone that story. Couldn't you embellish my figure every once in a while? Isn't that what storytellers do? Tell everyone that my bosom is as overflowing as... I don't know. What's something that overflows and is enormous?"

"Hawke, come on-"

"No." She grabbed his travel sack and dumped its contents on the table. The ball of string rolled out and Varric knocked over the mug of tea as he snatched it. "If Cullen can truly help my child, I want us to be there so it can happen immediately."

Cold tea dripped over the edge of the tabletop. "It's a gamble. What if he upholds the templar code? There isn't a Circle in Kirkwall anymore, maybe he'll think it's more merciful to kill the kid before it becomes an abomination."

"I hardly think he'd murder a child in cold blood," Hawke snapped. "She hasn't displayed any magical ability, yet. So far, it's just a mother's fretting without any proof."

"I've just got a bad feeling in the pit of my stomach-"

"It's that Maker forsaken tea you drank." She opened a cupboard door and yanked a dagger free from the underside of a shelf. She stuffed it into his travel sack along with a crust of bread. "If he sees her, sees that she's just a child, that she's innocent, maybe he'll be more inclined to help us."

"You don't think I could convince him, myself?" Varric asked.

"Ina's cuter than you are, Varric." Hawke grinned. "No offense."

"None taken." He reached behind him and felt Bianca's sturdy stock. "Bianca has been complaining that I never take her out, anymore."

"It's okay, I'm feeling hopeful about this," she said.

"Yeah?" He would always chase after the daisy petals as they floated in the wind. They usually didn't go very far. "You feel hopeful a lot?"

"Not usually." She disappeared out of the kitchen and when she returned, she had her sleeping daughter cradled against her chest. One chubby leg had kicked out from the blanket she was wrapped in and now dangled freely. "The last time I felt this hopeful was when Carver and I were marching toward Ostagar."

What was his memory trying to tell him? What story was unfolding in the back of his mind? Varric snorted. "You always know what to say to set my mind at ease, Hawke."

With a wide smile, Hawke winked at him. "Keep packing, Tethras."


	3. Chapter 3

People always complained that Ferelden smelled like wet dog. Varric found it funny. Because it was a harbor city, Kirkwall smelled of crisp air and salt, but if he inhaled too deeply, there was the distinct aroma of dead fish.

Maybe it was just him, but Varric would choose a live dog to a dead fish.

The gallows still had a looming, ominous, majestic beauty to them. Even with the alienage completely decimated and scars carved through Hightown, he was certain that with or without people, Kirkwall would decay slowly throughout the centuries so that scholars could look to it and ponder just what exactly went wrong.

Hawke handled their travels in the same no nonsense way that she always had. Varric remembered their past treks across the Free Marches as having been faster, but maybe that was just a trick memory played on him. Maybe it had to with the toddler that spent most of their travel time slung on her mother's hip as opposed to actually walking.

Hawke did it without complaint. She even joked with him when she forgot the precarious nature of their position.

"Do you remember when Fenris was the only squatter in Hightown?" she asked. Ina pawed at her collar and Hawke idly shifted the tyke to her other hip.

"None of these new ones will be nearly as friendly as the elf." Varric eyed the massive stone steps that led up to what was left of Kirkwall's Circle of Magi. Bricks battered by the sun, time and strife. "I'm not in the mood to take a shiv to the spine for the crumbs of cheese I have in my travel pack."

"Is that what you're calling the mold on our bread?" The corners of Hawke's mouth curved up as she tended to Ina's babbling. "I 'la' you too, precious girl." She looked up at Varric and shrugged. "Is it too much to hope that Ser Cullen would gift us a meal?"

"We'll see," Varric said.

The last time he'd spent any time in the gallows, there were bodies decorating the very steps they were climbing. A grim thought, but no less unsettling than empty streets. A single merchant sat with a cart of goods, probably the only man with coin enough to hire a guarded escort.

They traded the dusky sky streaked with pink for the high cathedral ceilings of the Circle. The red carpets imported from Orlais had been beautiful once, but time had frayed their edges and some stains refused to be scrubbed out.

A skeleton staff dotted the enormous hallways, mostly templars interspersed with the random tranquil. Not a single mage. Hawke didn't say anything, but her grip tightened on Ina until the babe whined.

"Excuse me, how can I help you?" He was a broad shouldered wall of muscle. It was an obvious intimidation tactic, with how he tapped his fingers along the hilt of his blade as he came upon them. His round, boyish cheeks and kind blue eyes betrayed him, however.

"Keran?" Hawke cocked her head to one side and grinned.

"You?" Keran's hand dropped immediately to his side and his posture softened. "We sent people looking, there have been Seekers, but they've all come back empty handed."

"I've been a little preoccupied," she replied as she shifted the baby on her hip.

He blinked and his eyes grew wide at the sight of Ina. "Oh!"

Hawke's laugh echoed down the corridor.

"We're looking for Knight Commander Cullen," Varric said. It felt too open in the Great Hall, too exposed.

Keran nodded. "He's in his office." He walked them up the stairs and accompanied them down the hallway. Outside Cullen's door he paused. "I'm glad you're okay."

"Me too," Hawke said. "How are you and Macha doing?"

"Macha's dead."

"Oh." She pulled Ina closer to her and Ina reached for her mother's hair. "I'm so sorry, Keran."

He offered them a forced smile. "It was my failure, not yours, but thank you, Serah."

Perhaps Varric had been wrong in his initial evaluation of Keran. There was nothing boyish to the man's face, now. They walked into Cullen's office and left him at the door.

For a man who often bemoaned paperwork, Cullen was nose deep in it. He barely acknowledged their entrance, trapped behind his desk with a stack of papers narrowly avoiding the wick of a candle. Gray had sprouted sporadically along his temples before it receded back to his original brown. Varric, too, probably had a bit more gray to his hair than he was ready to admit as of yet.

"Pardon me for not greeting you properly, Champion," he murmured. "But my workload's been heavier since we've absorbed the remaining city guard."

Varric felt himself reaching for the safety of Bianca, like a child lurching for his mother's skirt. "How have things been, Cullen?"

"You know how they've been, Varric." Cullen placed a letter over the candle's flame. "What is it that you want?"

"No small talk?" Varric asked. "I heard a real good story about a Chantry sister with brilliant red hair-"

"We left on friendly terms, Hawke." When the fire lapped up to his fingers, Cullen shook the destroyed document vigorously to snuff out the flames. "But you must understand that the Champion is not a sign of gentle change. I can't help but wonder what calamity is on your heels."

"The personal sort," Hawke said. She walked to his desk and sat her daughter atop it. Ina squirmed and sent papers fluttering to the ground. "Ina Beth, say hello to the nice man."

Ina babbled something in that half gibberish-half language she was so fond of before she offered Cullen a wave.

Cullen actually looked a bit relieved. He pushed the candle out of Ina's reach. "I had wondered why your name never appeared in any of the skirmishes in my reports."

"I would gladly stay in my forced retirement," Hawke said. "But I think Ina is touched with magic."

Cullen studied the girl as her grabby hands made their way to the feathered shaft of his pen in its inkwell. He gently flicked the child's nose, but his eyes were steely as he looked her over. "Has she displayed any talent?" he asked. "Small, unexplained house fires are a common first sign."

"No." Hawke laughed softly. "Just family superstition so far."

"Knight Commander? I was told you asked for tea."

That lifeless voice had Varric's throat closing in on itself. It wasn't fair. She still smelled how she always smelled. Sun warmed skin on a summer's day. If he closed his eyes, he could almost pretend, but when he opened them...

Bethany Hawke stood there with a tray of tea in her hands, her brown eyes dull and bland, that brand of tranquility etched into her forehead, an unforgiveable scar. She looked like Bethany, smelled like Bethany, but there was a hollowness to her voice that echoed of broken promises.

Varric resigned himself to always wanting things he could never have. He stroked Bianca.

"I never asked for..." Cullen pinched the bridge of his nose and sighed. "Keran. Of course. Thank you for the tea, Bethany. Did you know your sister was here?"

"Hello, Esther." She should have been smiling that shy little half grin, she should have been doing that little head tilt of hers. Instead, she stood placidly in the doorway.

It was what Bethany had wanted. Varric had to keep telling himself that. It was what she wanted.

Hawke had enough emotion for the both of them. She snatched Ina back up into her arms with a ferocity that left the tyke fussing. "There's no Circle in Kirkwall." Her lip curled up and revealed an angry flash of teeth. "What are you doing with my sister?"

Varric had heard rumors that Cullen had once suffered at the hands of mages. Horrible torture and other indignities. Varric respected the man for his ability to stay more rational than people like Meredith despite his past. Cullen remained in his seat, the only sign of his disquiet was the long exhale when he folded his hands on the desk. "The tranquil are useless to the mages who wish to fight," he said. "Yet most common people view them as mages. I've been trying to have my men collect any stray tranquil, so that they can be protected and live out their lives in peace."

"I like it here, sister," Bethany droned in that monotone voice. "The Knight Commander takes good care of me. Even Fenris treats me more kindly than he used to."

"Since you had your connection severed?" The words quickly left Varric's mouth in a grumble before he could stop himself. "Yeah, I could see that."

"Fenris is here, too?" In the dimly lit office, Hawke's eyes were sunken pits in her face. "It figures."

"The Chantry has their Seekers," Cullen said. "We have a wolf."

"I wish you wouldn't call me that." The rumbling bass came from behind Bethany. Varric could see the elf's lyrium tattoos gleam in the candlelight.

"And now you've joined us as well." There was no amusement in Cullen's face. "Was this Keran's idea?"

"No." Fenris walked into the room and headed toward Hawke. "I heard that some old friends had a fool notion that they could sidestep all the consequences caused by their poor decisions."

"Bethany, I don't believe you've met your niece, yet." Hawke breezed past Fenris and presented her daughter to her sister. Ina was kicking her legs and trying to free herself from her mother's grasp. "Her name's Ina Beth. I named her after you. Sort of."

"She has red hair," was all Bethany would say.

"There is no Circle in Kirkwall." Hawke blocked the doorway with her body before she set her daughter down. "How do I train her? How do I keep her safe?"

Fenris sniffed. "Typical."

"Unless you have something useful to say, I suggest you keep your comments about my child to yourself, Fenris." When Hawke used that tone, it was usually a cue to Varric that he had seconds to grope for his crossbow.

"Nothing good ever comes from magic." There was more disgust than anger in Fenris' voice. Varric decided that the day Fenris actually backed down from something would be a lovely one, indeed. "You know this. You have so many firsthand examples of this. Now you're paying the highest price for your indiscretion and still you expect to charm and negotiate your way out of it."

Ina had fallen on her bottom and began to crawl and pull her way toward Cullen and whatever interesting thing she saw behind his desk.

"She is a baby!"

"So was Danarius, once."

"Oh, you pitiful little man." Hawke raked both hands through her hair. "Don't you dare try to condemn her for my actions."

Cullen scooped Ina up into his arms and sat her on his knee. "If I may, Fenris." When he had both their attentions, he continued. "The safest way to train a fledgling mage is to have a fully trained mage."

"Which we don't have," Fenris snapped. "The only thing we can do is submit the child to the rite of tranquility."

"You'll kill me first." Hawke's daggers were in her hands without her usual, carefree flourish. Just a flash of steel and a snarl.

Ina was crying in earnest, now and Cullen bounced her on his knee to no avail. "Hawke, put those daggers away and take your child, please," he said. "Submitting a child to the rite of tranquility is ludicrous, Fenris. Especially because we have no confirmation that she is a mage."

"So we do nothing, then?" Fenris asked. "We lack another alienage that we can conveniently burn to the ground."

Hawke flung a hand back toward her sister in an angry gesture. "That is not a solution! That will never be a solution!"

Varric casually made his way over to Bethany and her forgotten tray of tea. "I hear there's still a garden out back," he said.

She nodded. "There is. Unfortunately the nightly frosts haven't been particularly kind to our flowers."

He nodded back at her. "Any daisies?"

"No." She should have been smiling. She should have been doing something, anything. She just stood there, while Varric breathed in her memory and desperately tried to forget. "There was a rose bush that I was convinced was dead, though. A single flower bloomed from it yesterday afternoon."

"Enough!" Cullen's shout was loud enough to cut through the noise and silence Ina. The girl's eyes were enormous as she blinked three times and then resumed her crying. "Fenris, I want you out walking our perimeter. Hawke, for the love of sweet Andraste, take your child."

Hawke walked over the Cullen and collected her daughter. "Shhh, sweetling, you're alright. Everything is alright." She stroked the girl's coppery curls and rubbed her back.

Fenris stalked out of the office without so much as a head nod. He'd get over it. Maybe.

"You need a mage," Cullen said.

"Sure," Hawke replied. "And my estate in Hightown, too. How about a chamber pot made out of solid gold while we're at it?"

There was a reason why Varric initially didn't want Hawke to come back to Kirkwall. "Hawke," he hissed.

"Not all mages are at war with the templars." Cullen opened a drawer in his desk and pulled out a sheet of paper. "I'll send a letter to my contact in Ferelden."

"And you think this contact will respond?" Hawke asked.

"I won't make any promises," Cullen said. "But as the scion of the Amell family, I can't help but think your name will carry a certain amount of fascination for him."


	4. Chapter 4

"Mummy! Mummy! Mummy, mummy, mummy!" Ina's shrill, excited shriek pierced through the open window. Hawke shook her head and sighed into her cup of tea.

Time had changed everything, yet somehow didn't alter a thing. She had let her hair grow long, like her mother's, like her sister's, until raven locks curled between her shoulder blades and shone almost blue in the sunlight. It almost suited her, that soft, matronly peasant look, yet Varric knew there were mornings when Hawke woke up groggy and wrong and she would practice her knife skills in the back of the chicken coop until the pads of her fingers blistered and split.

"You think she'll believe me if I tell her I've changed my name?" Hawke asked. She took a long swig of her tea and grinned. Sunlight from the kitchen window danced across her collarbone.

"She believes most of the tales I've told her, poor thing." Varric leaned back in his chair at the table and laughed. "And who knows what trash your wayward cousin has filled her head with."

"He is an odd one, isn't he?" she murmured. "I can hardly believe he walked with the Wardens during the Blight. But Cullen said it was true and he came with the Queen's seal."

Ina flung open the door and raced in, grass stains down her frock and mud caked on her boots. Donal Amell followed quickly on her heels with his matching copper head, just as muddy and with a sopping wet mabari pup in his arms.

"Mummy, did you know that Anora can swim?" Ina exhaled her sentence in one breath. She grinned broadly and displayed her two missing teeth. One had been loose and fell out due to natural circumstances, the other simply vanished one day with nothing but dubious glances between Ina and Donal to explain it.

"You better not have dropped that sweet puppy in the pond out back." Hawke plunked her tea down on the table before she rescued the dog from Donal's arms. Anora rewarded her master with sloppy kisses and paw prints across the front of her dress.

"I wouldn't," Donal insisted. "I can't swim."

That caught Varric's attention. "Wait," he said. "You mean to tell me you lived in the center of a lake for most of your life, but you can't swim?"

"Lake Calenhad was a barrier to keep mages in the Circle." Donal's eyes were pale and green like glass. The only thing he and Hawke shared was their almost unnatural pallor. "Do you honestly think the templars would give us swimming lessons?"

And that. Of course, when Hawke used her wit, she applied it in a way that endeared herself to others. Varric sometimes questioned whether Donal's sarcasm was intentionally used as a wall to shut others out or was just a sign of his social ineptitude.

Hawke raised an eyebrow. "Sure they would. They'd just have to be sure that they found big enough stones to tie around your ankles before your lessons began. How did my dog end up in the water, children?"

"It was nothing like that, Mum." Donal grinned, sheepish. "I was doing a focusing exercise with Ina. No fire, no lightning, just harmless light. Form a ball of light and move it from one point to another. We just forgot that dogs like to chase after moving things."

"Anora dived face first for it right into the grass!" Ina exclaimed. She threw her hands up for emphasis and giggled. "So I moved it over to the pond and I said 'don't do it, Anora!' but she did it anyway. It was a big splash!"

"I'll bet." Hawke set the puppy down and it shook the pond water from its short coat. The pup looked awkward now with its tiny body and massive paws, but Hawke insisted that meant that Anora would be a magnificent and intimidating war dog when she grew into her feet. Grass and mud decorated the floor. "Ina, fetch me a dozen eggs from the chicken coop."

"Why?" Ina asked.

Hawke smiled. "So I can scold your Uncle Donal."

"Okay!" Ina scrambled off, a smear of mud in her wake.

Donal sighed and slumped against the wall. "In all honesty I would never throw a dog into a pond. I know full well what it's like to be on the receiving end of such gestures. It's not nice."

"We should've gotten Ina a cat when she asked for one," Varric said. "A cat would never leap into a pond."

"No." Hawke scratched behind Anora's ear and then wiped the filth off on her apron. She gave Donal a tight-lipped smile. "Tell me, dearest cousin, why is it that Ina ran up to me earlier and said, 'Mummy, why do dogs have teats, but women have tits?' I find it hard to imagine who could possibly have told her that."

"Children are awfully precocious, aren't they?"

"Yes, but they also have awfully good hearing, Donal."

"Had a feeling that'd find it's way back to me." When Donal grinned, it was sad how Varric's eloquent view of the Amell lineage crumbled. Leandra had been so beautiful and elegant with soft, sloping lines, Varric had just assumed she was a perfect example as to what an Amell was.

It figured that someone like Gamlen would have been a more accurate representation. When Donal stood to his true height, he was boney, gangly and awkward. Stringy, ginger hair framed a long, thin face that had an equally long, thin and crooked nose. Given his complexion, most people assumed Ina was his daughter when they went out in public. Most of the time, Hawke was content to let strangers believe that, lest rumors make their way back to a certain blonde apostate that the Champion of Kirkwall had a fatherless child, but privately she would fuss and insist that her Ina was obviously too beautiful to be Donal's progeny.

"Esther, it was an appropriate conversation I was having with Ina-"

"It's not appropriate if you're using that kind of language."

Donal groaned. "The dog rolled on her back and Ina asked me what those things were and I said 'teats' and then she said, 'don't you mean tits?' because she'd heard me screaming about Andraste's... endowments... when I'd stubbed my toe the other day."

"You need to be mindful of impressionable, little ears that will listen to your every word," Hawke said.

That made Donal laugh. "You're right," he said. "I've been trying, honest. But there was a reason why the First Enchanter used to bury me in books in the Circle's library. To keep me far away from others."

"Sometimes I wonder, Donal." She walked over and reclaimed her tea.

"You wonder?" he asked. "You're the one who named your dog after the Queen of Ferelden. I can't imagine she'd approve."

"Cailan was the best dog I ever had." She drank her tea in a long slurp. "Carver and I named him, just before we headed to Ostagar. It just made sense to name this one Anora. But that doesn't explain how you with all your stubbed toes and paper cuts managed to help defeat a Blight."

"I had a lot of help." Donal grabbed a chair and joined Varric at the table. His eyes traveled down and then he laughed, suddenly. "Maybe one day I'll show you my battle scar, if you get me drunk enough."

"I'll pass," Hawke muttered over the lip of her cup. She set her tea down. "I am very glad that you were willing to travel all this way for me."

Donal shrugged.

"And I was glad about your choice in a ship captain to get here," Varric said. He felt a cold nose in his palm and he rewarded Anora with a pat on the head.

"Isabela?" There was that grin again, that stretched Donal's cheeks and showed off his crooked bottom row of teeth. "You know her?"

"Not as well as you do, I take."

"You mean did I sleep with her?" Donal asked. "Of course I did. Varric, my friend, I've stared into enough mirrors to know what I look like. If someone who looks like Isabela offers someone who looks like me an evening in her quarters, you don't question it, you just say thank you."

"Who's Isabela, Mummy?" Sure as day, Ina stood in the doorway, with several eggs gathered in her skirt, her petticoat exposed.

"Only the most magnificent jezebel this world has ever known," Donal proclaimed.

Hawke brought a hand to her head, partly from exasperation, partly to conceal her own sniggering. "Ina, dear, you're not supposed to show people your undergarments."

"Oh." Ina dropped her skirt and the eggs rolled down her front and smashed on the floor. She grimaced. "Oops."

Donal hopped out of his seat. "Hey, poppet, why don't you and I go out back and see if we can freeze the pond solid enough for ice skating?"

"Can we?" Ina beamed up at him.

Hawke pointed a finger to the door. "Out. Both of you, before I make you clean up this mess."

"Race you," Donal told Ina. He let the girl get a head start before he ran after her. He stuck his head back in the doorway for a quick, "Are you coming, Anora?" before he vanished for good.

The mabari yipped and dashed off after them.

Hawke sighed and grabbed the bucket of water in the corner.

"Well, I like Gangles," Varric said.

"He's got a mouth like a dock worker," she muttered.

"He's good for the kid," he replied. "Everyone needs a playmate."

"So does this mean you're going to help me clean this up?" Hawke squeezed the excess water from a soapy rag and threw it at him.

"Okay, okay!" Varric picked up the rag from his chest and stood up. "You been sleeping alright?"

She made a noncommittal noise before she was on her knees and wiping up egg and mud. "Better since we found this place. I like that it seems a little more permanent." Hawke nodded for him to join her on the floor. "There was only that one bit of confusion with the templars and Donal and Cullen squared that away quickly."

Yes. Varric had heard about that. The templars arrived in broad daylight, the middle of the afternoon, and Queen's seal be damned, had dragged Gangles to Kirkwall. Hawke had been paralyzed in her bedroom, with her daughter crushed against her chest. They'd stayed like that for hours, until the sun had set and it was clear that no one was coming back.

Donal reappeared several weeks later, but he was quieter, then. "It was a mistake and Cullen apologizes. It won't happen again," he had muttered.

Varric asked if it had been Cullen who promised that there wouldn't be a repeat and then a funny thing had happened. Donal smiled, but his eyes didn't light up. "No. I told Cullen that it wouldn't happen again," was all he'd say.

Varric always heard things, but it didn't always necessarily make them true. It was hard to view a man who laughed and played and rolled in the mud with a six year old as a dangerous mage killer. A man who used his particular set of abilities to aid the templars when tracking blood mages and abominations. A man who needed not only permission from the Knight Commander and First Enchanter, but both Edgar and Anora Cousland's signature just to be released from his country due to his knowledge of Flemeth and her grimoires.

Varric could hear Ina shrieking with laughter outside. Mirth filled Donal's voice as he hoarsely cried, "No, poppet! I said ice! Not fire! Ice!"

"Yeah." Varric dropped to the floor beside her. "Cullen's kept his promise so far. I have no complaints."

"How have you been sleeping, Varric?" Hawke asked. She paused her scrubbing to stare him down. "Any nightmares?"

Just a field of flowers with the sun beating down on his neck. "What are you getting at?"

"I think we did the right thing all those years ago when we helped Feynriel," she said. Her gaze broke as she chewed her bottom lip. "But some mornings I wake up and I can't help but think he's toying with me and then I get really angry."

"Sometimes dreams just happen." He was so young, tearing out those daisy petals and blowing them into the air. "One Dalish dreamer can't be in everyone's head at night."

"The ones with Merrill are just nightmares." She sounded more like she was trying to convince herself than him. "I know Anders dragged me away for our safety, but then I think about Bethany just crying and Fenris with his damn, blasted fist..."

"Fenris saved us," Varric said softly.

"He didn't save Merrill," she muttered.

"What about the other dreams, then?" He would always chase after the flower petals. He could feel the grass, dirt and smooth stones beneath his bare feet.

"Anders." She resumed cleaning the floor with broad swipes of the rag. "Sometimes he begs, cries. And I just talk at him. About how I miss him, and stupider little things like how I spent a lot of precious coin to get a mabari puppy shipped here. I don't know, maybe it's guilt."

Varric shrugged. "Maybe."

"But sometimes I like to think he's having the same exact dream," Hawke said. "Maybe Feynriel tied our minds together in the Fade and when he wakes up, he'll remember everything we talked about in our dreams."

"Are you sure I'm the storyteller, here?" He chuckled. "That would sure be pretty if it were true."

She smiled up at him. "You think?"

"Yeah," he said. "It sounds pretty good, Hawke."

Running, barreling down a field of flowers. When he licked his lips he could taste his salt sweat and the sun was making the dirt trail ahead crack. Just as Varric reached out for the last petal, he stumbled and fell. Pain lanced through his chin where it cracked against the soil. All of his daisies were gone.

_A/N Darling Donal Amell makes his first appearance in my ongoing series, "Wardens." I'm aiming for things to be self-explanatory enough that no one will be required to read that if they choose not to. It's a multi-origins fic of the first game and because of that, Donal isn't a Grey Warden._


	5. Chapter 5

"So, who's Merrill?"

Human ale snaked down the wrong pipe as Varric swallowed hard. He coughed. "No one you'd know, Gangles."

Donal was smirking. It didn't suit him. "Try me."

"Have you ever been in a place that was so dead and cynical that you just about wrote it off?" Varric asked. He swiveled around on the bar stool to face the other man. "Then, amidst it all, you find something so perfectly out of place, that it makes everything about that horrible place worthwhile?"

"Like a rose in the middle of a battlefield."

"Roses are too regal. More like a daisy." Kissed by sunlight, full of giggling joy. She'd sprouted in that alienage and faced the rest of the world with an amazed wonderment, completely unaware at how her mere existence in such a decayed place was a miracle.

"Is that why you keep coming back here?" Donal asked. He gestured to the Hanged Man itself, before he settled back down to his drink. "It's an awful long stroll, otherwise."

What would be the simplest answer? Norah swished past them. Varric folded a napkin and slid it under his mug. "There's many reasons why I do what I do, Gangles. It's just a matter of picking the most convenient one at the moment."

"So Merrill, then?"

"Is just a drop in the bucket, friend."

"So, I need to drink more." Donal hunched over the bar and formed a protective wall with his body around the drink he nursed. Just another gangly, out of place boy that the Hanged Man housed for a brief time. "If I don't know everything, Varric, I can't be as effective in protecting Ina."

"Information goes both ways," Varric replied. "You traveled all the way from Ferelden, came across an ocean to live on a farm with some strangers."

Donal glanced at his drink and avoided the other man's gaze. He couldn't lie to a liar. "They're family."

"Family you didn't know."

"They're family."

"My family left me for dead in the Deep Roads."

Donal's sigh was a raspy exhale that ended in a laugh. He raised a finger as he drained his drink. "I could've been a father. Kind of. Sort of. But I could have."

And Varric could have been a lover. A doer. An active participant in this story instead of the wayward observer who documented all the actions and triumphs, the losses and tragedies of those around him. He reached suddenly for his spot at the bar and felt those smooth, carved initials. Still there, always there.

"I didn't think saving the world provided much opportunity for starting a family," Varric said. He caught Norah's fine lined gaze and gestured for more drinks.

That made Donal laugh in a loud burst that upset the dull hum of the bar. "You're not very familiar with the tale of the Wardens, then, are you? Ferelden's current king made his way through the vast majority of maidens in the countryside before he was introduced to Queen Anora and he has at least one rogue bastard because of it."

"Just the one?" Varric chuckled.

"A few have come forward, I suppose." Donal shrugged. "But the king's memory of what woman and where is a bit shaky, and none of the potential bastards have eyes like King Edgar or Prince Bryce. What did Alistair call the color? Inbred blue!"

"What you're telling me is that you found someone who put up with your ugly mug?" Varric said.

"I did." The usual spark left Donal's eyes as he stared at his empty cup.

Varric hoped his hand that hurried Norah to them was as subtle as he wanted. Some of his talents had grown a bit rusty as of late, when chasing chickens with little girls had taken priority over subterfuge in his daily activities. "I didn't know you had a child."

"He's not mine." Donal set his cup down on the bar and rubbed his eyes. "I mean, I wanted him and I helped arrange it. But he couldn't be mine, because he needed the Wardens' taint and that way, no one would die. But people died, anyway! It was all foolishness, really."

"Maybe you're done drinking, Gangles," Varric said. He extended a hand and gave the other man a hesitant pat on the back.

Donal shook his head. "He's got to be a young man by this time."

And was Ina as young as the boy had been? "Was he a mage, too?" Varric asked.

"Doesn't matter." Donal held his cup out and Norah refilled it. "I'm never going to see him, again. Tell me about Merrill and the alienage."

"You ever hear that old wives' tale, about how if you die in your dreams, you die for real?" Varric asked.

Donal nodded. "Because of your connection to the Fade while you dream."

"I think they got it wrong," Varric said. He closed his eyes and inhaled the scents of stale ale and wood polish along the bar. "You can die in your dreams, but it's when your dreams die in you, things happen."

Donal snorted. "That sounds just a wee bit melodramatic."

"Not at all." Maybe Varric wouldn't have known if he hadn't died in his dreams, before. There was a weightlessness to it, before the guilt came crushing down upon him.

Hawke had been the one to do it. She had the decency to look confused even as she brought down the fatal blow. Varric told himself many times that the desire demon in the Fade helped to sway him. Or that because he knew it was a dream, he dared to explore options that he would never have considered in reality. For something that had seemed so artificial, the shame was very real.

She'd still saved Feynriel, though, without his help.

The ale was nutty and went down smooth. Maybe that meant that he was drunk enough. "Merrill was a Dalish," Varric said. "The Keeper's first." His Daisy. One of the few bright lights in the darkened path paved by people like Anders and Fenris. How many lights had been snuffed out? There was still light, yet, wasn't there? Did Hawke count? Varric wasn't quite sure.

"Merrill's life work was to restore the lost knowledge of the Dales," Varric said. "She believed she was helping her people. Even when that meant blood magic, even when she was banished because of it. She'd help her clan whether they wanted it or not."

Donal nodded, but his eyes began to droop the more he drank. "I knew a Dalish like that, once. Rastaban Mahariel. He was so focused on elevating his people that he could be a right prick, sometimes. Funny thing was, that he tended to be much harder on the other elves we traveled with than anyone else."

"Merrill wasn't like that. She was..." Alive in a dead place. Compassionate where others were thoughtless, merciful when she had no right to be. She deserved more. "She was a good person. Sweet girl. But I guess once you start talking to demons, it's hard to tell them to go away."

"They always prey on your innermost desires," Donal muttered. He jerked up to his full height, suddenly, and examined the sparse and scattered patrons before he spoke again. "Abominations are a bitch. Especially when the face they wear is familiar."

"She wasn't an abomination!" Varric had always remembered her as a gateway. She'd stood there frozen in her two room shack, bloated as demons tore through her and used her life essence to materialize in this world. "There was a mirror, but it wasn't a normal mirror-"

"An Eluvian."

"That's the word, exactly." Ale sloshed on Varric's chin as he drank a little too deeply. "She was the anchor that the demons needed to transfer to this world from wherever they were."

Flower petals in the wind. Varric would welcome that dream, the one that filled him with a wistful confusion over the recollection of Merrill's last day. She'd been so excited, elated, convinced that she had unlocked some fantastic secret.

"It's like that ball of string you gave me." The pace of her speech always quickened whenever she was passionate about something. Sometimes, he'd have to ask her to slow down, just so he could understand. "It connects my apartment to the Lowtown bazaar, to Hightown, to the Chantry and their beautiful gardens! This Eluvian ties threads of the Fade to our world. Anyone, anything! We're all connected."

When she said it like that, it was so pretty. Was that how she viewed the world? Animated to the point of making her nose twitch. What they didn't realize at the time was that those gossamer threads truly were spider's silk in an elaborate web.

He didn't want to think. He didn't want to see her like that. He wanted to see her smiling and laughing, with those big green eyes sparkling. Not with her mouth open, unable to scream, unable to move, her body distorted as those things walked through it. He didn't want to think about Fenris and his glowing fist with the strength to do the right thing.

"Merrill and the Eluvian are the reasons why there's no more Alienage here, huh?" Donal said softly.

"It wasn't just her fault." Donnic and Anders were distracted and frantic with how quickly Aveline had been bleeding out. Varric, Isabela and Hawke all kept getting pushed back to the perimeters, their daggers and arrows mere irritations. Varric could remember the hoarseness in Blondie's voice as he announced that Aveline was stabilized, and how Bethany's shriek was cut abruptly short as that damned thing moved on and snatched her up by the throat. Time stood still as Varric was too slow. His muscles turned to ice and nothing he hummed could aid his concentration. No one was close enough to do anything, except for Fenris.

Damn Fenris. Fenris was a hero that day and they all hated him for it.

"We all had a hand in it," Varric said. "Someone should have known better."

Donal wouldn't look him in the eyes. "I'm sorry."

"Ancient history, Gangles." Varric didn't recognize any of the patrons in the bar. The Hanged Man didn't feel as inviting or comforting as it once did. He'd already passed his note for Cullen to Norah. There was no reason to stick around. "You said you had a battle scar from the Blight?"

"I never said it was from the Blight." Gangles was more pleasant drunk. He grinned easy and swayed. "Women leave worlds of scars."

The damn fool was unbuttoning his shirt in the middle of the bar. Norah had been walking toward them, but sharply veered away as Donal exposed his chest. Raised pink scar tissue rested squarely on his breast, right above his heart.

"Ladies love scars, I've been told." Donal was giggling. He tapped the old wound before he began to button his shirt. "At least, I hope so. I'm doomed, otherwise."

Varric had a certain amount of jealousy for those who brazenly wore their scars. It would be nice to let everyone know how broken he was, and have them coo and rub balm in his injuries. Scars were more acceptable than relic shards and mirror shards stored away in forgotten alienage shacks. Donal's wound may have been hideous, but he'd survived it and it had healed. Sometimes, it was hard to tell if things were fading or if they were festering, with how sealed away and compartmentalized Varric left them.

Varric dropped some coin on the bar and slung Donal's arm over his shoulder. The task of dragging his drunk friend out of Kirkwall and back home sounded like it would be entertaining if nothing else.


	6. Chapter 6

Running. Always running.

Leaves and stems slapped across his legs and the bottoms of his bare feet were black with dirt. Varric's lungs burned, but he pressed himself onward. Faster, harder as petals were swept up into the sky, just out of reach, far enough away to fade into the horizon.

He stretched upward, extended himself too far. So near, close enough to feel the dewy softness of a petal and then his foot snagged and caught on something. He was never fast enough to catch himself and he always hit the hard dirt ground chin-first.

As he rolled onto his back on the cracked and parched earth, his jaw froze open. Pressure turned into a tingling, throbbing pain that began at the tip of his chin and radiated outward until in encompassed the entire lower half of his face. Varric groped at the injury and his eyes teared up. He wouldn't cry, if Bartrand knew he'd been crying... he wouldn't cry.

Daisy was gone. His daisies were gone. His hair was still warm from the day filled with sunshine, but now it kept its distance and crept deeper into the horizon. All that remained was his split chin and the cause of it.

Maggots fell out of the open eye sockets that stared at him unapologetically.

Varric shot upright in bed and thrashed an arm out for Bianca. The pallid moonlight bathed his room in dim blues and in the distance he could hear crickets chirping. Ina sat at the foot of his bed, her knees pulled to her chest. Her features were round and soft like her mother's, but it was times such as these when Varric would swear she gave looks like her father.

"You should be asleep, Sparky," he said.

"I think one of the chickens are sick." She frowned. Sometimes, depending on the lighting, Ina's hazel eyes had rings of blue like her mother. In the dull early morning, the flecks of amber were more apparent. "I wanted to check on her, but Uncle Donal won't get up. I thought you were awake."

Varric coughed out a small laugh as he scratched at his chest hair. "Was I making a lot of noise, kiddo?"

"I'm glad you woke up," she said.

"I didn't scare you, did I?" he asked.

"No." Ina crawled over to him and curled up in his lap. "You were scared."

"Nuh uh."

"Uh huh."

"You don't know what you're talking about.

"Yes, you were!"

Varric wrapped his arms around the child and rested his chin atop her head. "You can't tell anyone or I'll let them know you were up when you were supposed to be sleeping."

"It's okay to be scared," Ina said against his chest. "Sometimes."

"Easy for you to say." As he pulled her close, he could feel her little heart pounding fast, like a rabbit's. "You're not scared of anything. And even if you were, you've got your mom and Uncle Donal and even Anora. I'm old enough to have to take care of myself."

"It's okay," she said. "You have me, Uncle Varric."

"Yeah?" He wondered if she could tell if he was grinning. "I guess I do."

"Uncle Varric?"

"Hmm?"

"You're not scared of me, are you?"

"What?" He pulled her tighter. "No! Of course not."

"Sometimes I think Mummy is." Her voice was tiny as she burrowed her face as deeply into his chest as she could.

"No. Not at all." Varric wasn't entirely sure how to explain that being terrified for someone didn't equate to being scared of that someone. Maybe there was a bit of overlap. He twisted her hair into knotted braids with his fingers. Ina wasn't supposed to be old enough to pick up on those subtle nuances, yet. "We're just trying to do what's best for you and sometimes it's hard to know what that is. Even for grown ups." Especially for grown ups.

"Okay," she said. "Can we check on the chicken, yet?"

"How about I do that, while you try to get some sleep?" he told her.

Ina pulled away from him. "When you come back, will you tell me a story?" she asked.

"Absolutely." Varric threw his legs over the side of the bed and stood up. "How about one about a beautiful pirate queen who defied a country of giants?"

Ina shrugged. "Maybe there could be witches and dragons?"

"Flemeth, again?" Varric chuckled. "You certainly have a taste for the fantastical, Sparky."

"Uncle Donal says that he met Flemeth once and she was a witch with a 'b'," she said as she hugged his pillow. "But 'witchb' sounds weird and he laughed so I think he's making fun of me."

Varric wouldn't tell her that Donal could be a bass without the 'b,' then. He gave her head one last pat and said, "I'll be right back, Ina."

As Varric exited the house, he left the candle on his nightstand and didn't grab for another one in the kitchen. He stood for a long while, outside the front door, until his eyes began to adjust. From the blackness, shapes began to form. A path, some rocks, an overturned bucket. If he just gave himself enough time to adapt to a situation, often he found he could handle it better than if he relied on some outside source.

There was a nagging feeling in the back of his mind as he made his way to the chicken coop. Maybe Hawke was right. Maybe Feynriel was doing things to their dreams. Since they'd all started on this path, nothing had gone wrong, but yet Varric couldn't sooth the twisting of his guts. They were safe, they were housed, they were fed, their mages had the assistance of the templars. What could possibly be the cause of the constant nightmares if not Feynriel?

Varric slipped through the wire fence and latched the gate behind him. The coop itself was silent. The things he did for silly children. If all the chickens rushed him and lunged out of the chicken coop, he told himself he'd just let them run around in the fenced in backyard until the morning.

The door to the chicken coop opened with a low creak and he was greeted by some startled clucks as the chickens woke. He should have brought a candle, because aside from some fussing, they stayed still on their perches or nesting boxes and in the dimness of early morning it was difficult to see if they were awake, sleeping or dead. Varric muttered a few choice words and began to poke the chickens one by one.

When he found it, he shouldn't have been surprised. Ina did pay close attention to all the chickens. The hen was unmoving and cold in its nesting box. The only one with silver laced feathers. He groaned as he pulled it from the coop. If it wasn't disposed of properly, Anora would probably find it.

Was that what Ina meant by 'sick?' Varric fumbled in the dark until he found an empty sack of feed to put the dead hen into. It was fresh and without maggots, but it did little to ease the disquiet in the pit of his stomach. As he dug a hole behind the chicken coop with a spade, he told himself that it was the wrong type of bird.

Coincidences lined up in a neat little row, just like men waiting for execution.

With the chicken buried, he washed his hands at the spigot and wiped them dry on the back of his trousers. Varric had to think about what story he'd tell Ina, how he'd explain the chicken. He couldn't think about the empty eye sockets in his nightmare, the ones that held those maggots, or the bird's open beak, its broken wing, how it practically buzzed with all the insects it housed.

"Alright, Sparky, where were we?" he whispered softly once he returned to his room.

Ina didn't stir. The girl had managed to stretch her body to its full length and overtake his bed. One bare foot dangled over the side and the only movement he noticed was the steady rise and fall of her chest. Varric pulled a blanket up from the foot of the bed and tucked it just beneath her chin.

"Sweet dreams, kiddo," he murmured as he retreated to the kitchen. When the sun rose on a new day, maybe it would give him a fresh perspective on things.


	7. Chapter 7

"Did you ever hear stories about my mother?" Ribbons of light danced across the kitchen table as Donal opened the curtains.

His question was abrupt and out of nowhere. Hawke frowned as she thought.

"Not really," she said. "Why? What have you heard?"

Donal shrugged and made his way over to the table. "Not much. I just have a few memories and wondered if they matched up with the truth."

Hawke wiped her hands on her apron. "Her name was Revka and the scandal of her birthing a mage cost Grandfather the viscountcy. That's about all I know."

"Revka?" Donal made a sound in the back of his throat as he nodded. "More than I knew, I suppose. You don't know what color hair she had, do you? Doesn't matter, I guess. I always liked that memory, it'd be a shame if you proved it false."

Varric coughed. "I caught a rabbit. If you make supper with this, remember I already killed it, so you don't have to murder it a second time."

Hawke stuck her tongue out at him. "Whiners don't have to eat."

"Norah tells me that the trick is to let it sit a moment after you roast it," Varric said. "If you cut into it too quickly, all the juices will run out."

"You can just tell Norah that I'd rather dry meat that's thoroughly cooked than have it moist and raw," she replied.

"I'll do that," Varric replied. "Where's Sparky?"

"Outside, probably harassing the dog." Hawke took her hands off her apron and dropped them to her side as she listened. A long moment drew out enveloped by silence. A single eyebrow shot up. "You're right, Varric. It's too quiet. She's not up to anything good."

"I'll go find her," Donal offered. "She needs to practice her spell casting, anyhow."

As Donal made his way out, bellowing, "Poppet!" Hawke motioned for Varric to set the rabbit down on the table. She retrieved an onion and some garlic that was tied up and hanging by the window. Ina's shrieks and Donal's laughter soon drifted back to their home and Hawke chuckled to herself.

"You know, Varric, you didn't have to do any of this." As she cut into the onion, it burned his eyes.

"What are you talking about?"

Hawke giggled then, a tiny little sound in the back of her throat. "That came out wrong," she said. "What I meant to say is thanks, I suppose. I mean, thank you, Varric."

"All this for one rabbit?" Varric raised an eyebrow. "What kind of speech would you give for a lamb? How about venison?"

"Don't be an ass." She plucked up a clove of garlic with her short fingers and pelted him in the forehead with it. "We're having a moment, here, and you know I'm not good at these sorts of things."

"It's called friendship, Hawke," he said.

"And you've been a good friend," she replied. "One of the very best."

Varric shrugged. "I just did what I had to," he said. "Maybe I just needed you as much as you needed me."

One of life's perfect, little unexplainable moments, tossed in to skew your hope for all the horrible things to follow. He wondered if there was a story in there, something to elaborate on, to make everything more important. Hawke's fingers were usually so deft with blades, but in the kitchen she meticulously and slowly lined up the onion before she brought the knife down upon it. Varric's tongue felt heavy and the more he tried to put words to everything, the more garbled it seemed. Something told him to just enjoy it for what it was worth. Just live, stupid.

Varric sat in a kitchen chair and watched her cut onions. Hawke's nose rankled and her mouth twisted as she fought the way her eyes wanted to tear up. She set the knife aside and deposited the onions in a pot before she dabbed at her eyes with her apron. Those blue eyes glistened, but she smirked at him.

"You know, have you ever wondered something?" Hawke said. "Have you ever wondered why you and me, Varric? Why we never..?"

"No." Varric found himself clearing his throat. "Can't say that I have."

That made her laugh. "No, I suppose not."

"We have a habit of inviting enough trouble to our doorstep," he said.

She was no good at false insult, her words were too soaked with sarcasm. "You think I'm trouble?"

"Hawke, please, there's no thinking involved," Varric replied. "It's an unspoken, primordial echo left by whatever being that formed you."

"Being that formed me?" She moved on to the garlic. "I haven't heard this Legend of the Champion, yet."

"It's very boring rendition," he drawled. "The lesson to the story being that if it ain't broke, don't fix it."

Hawke looked to the open window a moment and listened for the laughter and shrieks that had faded. "I never thought of it that way. We aren't broken, are we?"

"Good thing, too." Varric let his eyes drift to the window. Outside was sunny and warm. "They don't make parts for our kind, anymore."

"No quality, anymore."

"I don't know about that," he said. "The kid's alright."

"She is." Hawke smiled into the light from the window that bathed her face. "She's such a good girl, Varric."

"Only when she's not too quiet," Varric replied.

Hawke turned and looked at him. "They are a bit quiet now, aren't they?"

Without exchanging another word, they left the kitchen and silently walked out of the house. Anora ran up to them and greeted them by rolling onto her back and exposing her belly. Ahead of them, Donal sat in the grass and whispered to Ina. She grinned that big, gap-toothed smile of hers and waved at them.

"Watch me, Mummy!," she said.

"Your mum's here?" Donal darted a look over his shoulder at them. He had a tight smile. "I don't know if this is such a good idea..."

"You promised, Uncle Donal," Ina told him.

"Yes, Uncle Donal," Hawke said. "You mustn't promise little girls things, especially if you're hesitant to perform these things in front of their mothers."

"Yes, Mum." Donal took a deep breath and clapped his hands together as he looked at Ina. "Okay. Just like we talked about, Poppet. Just twirls. No funny, silly anythings until we're certain we can do just this, okay?"

Ina scrunched her face up. "I don't do funny or silly anythings."

"I'm serious, child," Donal said. "I don't want to hurt you, Ina Beth. Some things you can't fix. Promise you'll behave for this or I won't do it."

"I promise I'll behave, Uncle Donal," Ina said as somberly as a six-year-old could muster.

"Okay." He waved his hands at her. "Dance, Poppet."

And in the blink of an eye, Ina was beaming again. She scrambled a distance away from Donal and began to spin. She turned, circle after circle, until the skirt of her dress billowed up and Varric thought she'd stumble with dizziness. Meanwhile, Donal sat, with his hands pressed together, as if concentrated in prayer.

"Strong enough to lift," the mage muttered to himself. "Gentle enough to caress."

Varric was vaguely aware of the wind. It began as a flutter that made his trousers tickle his ankles and made his hair brush against his ears. He had the passing thought that harsh wind was odd for this season, but realized quickly the spark of magic. It almost had a taste to it, once a body knew what to look for. The magic gust of wind swept little Ina up, and left her spinning on a pocket of air. The girl's undergarments flashed brazenly as she was slapped in the face with her skirt. She was a tangled mass of red hair, skirts, limbs and laughter.

Varric had seen a jewelry box like that once. When the top was popped off, a little dancing girl sprang up and spun at a speed dependent on how tightly one cranked the music box in the back. It had been the one shred of a life left behind by a woman at the Blooming Rose. One that she had kept tucked away in a drawer, despite all the furs and satins her profession had bestowed upon her. At the time, Varric had been more interested in the baubles the box held, but now, he could almost hear that metallic music drift as Ina laughed and laughed.

"That's enough, Donal," Hawke said suddenly and it was over.

A vein appeared along Donal's forehead and his cheeks flushed pink. The man kept muttering reassurances to himself and the current of air began to lessen and disperse until Ina tumbled to the ground.

"When do I get to do that to you, Uncle Donal?" Ina exclaimed. "Can you do it again?"

"You wear me out, Poppet." Donal dragged his hands over his cheeks. "No more magic for me, today."

"Ina, go set the table." Hawke's eyes were flat, like stone.

"But-"

"Now," she said. "When you're finished, you can play until supper."

Ina grumbled something beneath her breath, but shuffled off towards the house. Anora scrambled past the girl and trotted up to Varric. The pup plopped down and with a yip, scratched at her ear with a hind leg. The yellow ribbon tied around her neck was new, as was the note rolled up and tucked into it.

"That was a damn foolish thing to do, Donal," Hawke said.

He nodded. "I know."

"Do you know how high up in the air she was?" she demanded.

"Very high."

The script in the note was crude, but rounded and feminine. Varric breathed a sigh of relief. Norah's then, not Cullen's.

"That's all?" Hawke asked. "That's all you can think to say?"

"I got ahead of myself," Donal said. "I spoke too soon. Ina overheard. I thought I could do it and thankfully, I was right. But it was stupid and I shouldn't have."

"If anything would have happened-"

"It didn't." Donal stood up and his voice lowered. "I would never knowingly harm your child. If it comes to that, I would rather leave or invite disaster upon my own person."

"That was a little dark, Gangles," Varric muttered.

Hawke sighed. "Donal," she said. "Just don't be an idiot. Kids can break and I'm awfully fond of that one seeing as she's my one and only."

Donal blinked. "Right."

Varric glanced at the two, both with tight jaws and tensed shoulders. He cleared his throat. "As much as I hate to interrupt this awkward confrontation, I've got some news."

"Oh for the love of the Maker, what now?" As she exhaled, Hawke's shoulders lowered.

"Someone's been seen wandering around the old alienage," Varric said.

"Ghosts, then?" Hawke snorted. "What ludicrous story has the local gossip come up with for it?"

"Not so ludicrous, I'm afraid." Varric hoped he was smiling and not wincing. They'd said he'd been dressed plainly. He didn't look like much, with his slight figure and scraggly blonde hair, but sometimes, when the night grew too dangerous, his eyes would glow an effervescent blue, like freshly enchanted lyrium.

"Varric?" Hawke's eyebrow was raised, but her voice was soft.

"They think it's Anders, Hawke," Varric said.


	8. Chapter 8

Dimly lit lanterns and the dull smell of pine brought him back. Too many chairs clustered around tables, too many stools clustered around the bar... too many mirrors.

This was not the Hanged Man. Why was it always so easy to float in dreams?

"Okay. What now?" Varric muttered. Fading in and out, the ale was as fragrant as a flower. As he deliberated to whether a dream would have as much strength or resonance when he realized it was a dream, that was when he saw him.

"Is this a joke?" Varric asked.

He weaved in and out of shadows. His face had no reflection in the mirrors and every footprint he left vanished as soon as his foot took another step. "No joke," Feynriel said. "I had anticipated Hawke being too obstinate to grasp these dreams, but you? You were always clever, Varric. I didn't expect you to be this daft."

Hawke. Hawke who had dashed off to Kirkwall at the mere mention of a rumor. A rumor Varric foolishly told her.

"It was you?" Varric said. He found the ground again and dragged his legs through it as he made his way toward Feynriel. "You were the one who planted that dream? You had me puzzling over that damn, maggot-infested falcon?"

"It wasn't a falcon," Feynriel said. "Just a hawk. And no, I didn't plant it. Your memories are yours, I just led you to them."

"The daisies? The sunshine?" Varric was laughing an angry bark. "Why weren't we in Rivain, surrounded by blonde elves that sang choir songs as they trained to be Guard Captain?"

Feynriel shook his head. Maybe it was just the dream, but the young man had a certain confidence that he hadn't possessed back in Kirkwall. "They weren't important."

"Don't you try to tell me who I think is important-"

"You're not listening, Varric."

"And why should I?" Varric stopped dragging and pulling himself toward the other man. "How do I even know it's you? You could be a demon or worse."

"Fair point," was all Feynriel would say for a while. When he opened his mouth again to speak, Varric cut him off.

"You're just one man," he said. "Hawke was convinced you had a hand in her dreams, too. But you're all the way in Tevinter. You can't be so many places all at once."

Feynriel shrugged. "I'm a dreamer. It's what I do."

"Bullshit."

"See those mirrors over there?" Feynriel crouched down and rested his hands on his knees.

"The Eluvians, you mean?" Varric asked.

There was a mirror, but it wasn't a normal mirror.

An Eluvian.

Gangles had been awfully quick to correct him, hadn't he? Funny how Donal Amell disappeared as soon as Hawke ran back to Kirkwall. That left Varric as the sole caretaker of a six year old girl.

"No, just normal mirrors," Feynriel said. "Shatter one and what happens?"

Varric gripped one and pulled it to him. "Seven years bad luck?"

Feynriel chuckled. "Maybe. But if you pick up a piece of a shattered mirror, it may be smaller, but it's still a perfectly fine mirror."

"Sharper around the edges," Varric muttered. He didn't dare look into the reflective glass.

"Maybe," Feynriel said again. "But that's sort of what I do. I'm able to split up aspects of myself, scatter little pieces all across the Fade."

"Wouldn't that make you weaker?" Varric asked. "More vulnerable?"

"But I can see more," Feynriel replied. "It's a trade off."

"Yeah?" Varric kept passing the mirror shard from one hand to the other. Feynriel seemed to almost glow. It made him wonder how he appeared in this dream. "And what do you see?"

"Look into the mirror, Varric." Feynriel gently took Varric's hand and tilted the mirror up to him.

In the mirror, Varric was a boy, again. In that field that smelled of daisies and grass and sunshine. He ran on a loop, starting from nothing and until he tripped over the dead bird and back again.

"That's who you were," Feynriel said. "And it's a deliberate choice you've made to be him over and over again."

Varric snorted. "Well, he is a handsome, little bugger, isn't he?"

"He is," Feynriel allowed. "He's also afraid of his older brother, Bartrand, lonely, but too terrified to admit it, so he'd rather waste his time with chasing petals just out of his reach."

"You sound like a real prick when you say it like that."

Feynriel laughed, loud and jovial. "Don't even get me started," he said. "Do you know how many people dream of murder? Of sex? All the while I'm this accidental, unwilling voyeur. A witness to atrocities that never happened."

"So that one I had about..?"

"Don't remind me."

Varric was laughing, then. It felt good. "So all these dreams are because I'm having some kind of identity crisis?" he asked. "That's going way out of your way for just one person."

"I owe you and Hawke a twofold debt for saving my life," Feynriel said. "But you're right. There are other factors at play."

"Such as?"

"You don't have to be that little boy, anymore," Feynriel told him. "Stop poking at old wounds and they'll heal. Enjoy the life you have while you're living it."

Varric smirked. "Easy for the man that lives a thousand lives just by taking a nap."

"True, but yours must be infinitely more precious seeing as it's your only one," Feynriel replied. "So just live it. You're good at being discreet. Ignore all this nonsense with the templars and mages. Don't go back to Kirkwall. Death is the only thing you'll find there."

Kirkwall. Hawke left for Kirkwall a day earlier. Gangles vanished mere hours after she did.

Varric bit his lip. Some things didn't hurt in dreams. "I have to go back to Kirkwall," he said softly.

"No," Feynriel said. "No good will come of it. You can't stop things already put in motion. Please, save yourself that."

Varric closed his eyes. He could still see the distress painted on Feynriel's face. "The hawk's not dead, yet," Varric said. "Ina needs her mother."

Feynriel nodded. The smile on his face wasn't convincing. "Shit," was all he'd say.

"Thanks for the heads up," Varric said.

"It should have been more," Feynriel replied and was gone.

Varric woke to Ina on his belly. The woven blankets were heavy and stiff. He blinked hard.

"Uncle Varric!" She leaned her full weight into his stomach until he groaned. "Wake up!"

"I'm up." He winced.

Ina took a deep breath and exploded in chatter. "We were talking about how it would have been funny if the elf with the glowing tattoos became a dancer and put on shows and then you just fell asleep!" She inhaled two quick gasps of air and continued. "I tried screaming and tickling and shaking, but you wouldn't get up."

Varric pushed himself up to a sitting position and she tumbled back to the foot of the bed. "I'm up now," he said.

"Mummy's gone and Uncle Donal's gone and I didn't know what to do!"

"Just dreaming, Sparky." He brought a hand to her head and gave it a pat. "It's okay, now."

She made an angry noise and barreled toward him and latched her arms around him.

"It's alright, kiddo." He held the girl and rocked her in his lap a moment. He sighed. "I hate to do this, but we have to go after them."

Of course Esther Hawke's child would grin up at him for that. "We're going to bring them back?"

"No," Varric said. "I'm going to bring them back. You're going to stay safe and hang out with your Aunt Bethany, Sparky."

"We're going to bring them back!" Ina squealed and flailed her arms about. "I'll go pack!"

She scrambled off the bed and dashed away. Varric just shook his head. It would be tricky, but memories of how the hawk's body shifted with the writhing of the maggots that ate it spurred him on. Cullen would help. Blondie and Gangles were the unknown elements. Varric wasn't entirely sure if he wanted Fenris' help.

Isabela was safe and unreachable in the ocean, somewhere. He could always call on Aveline, he supposed. Varric grimaced. He'd made a personal promise to Donnic not to. Because Aveline would show up for Hawke despite knowing better and her sword arm wasn't what it once was. She had a family to look out for, now, too.

The ball of twine sat on his night stand. Once upon a time, he'd hefted it as hard as he could at a broken Eluvian. It had rattled and the mirror shards glinted light against the walls of the alienage shack. He should have toppled it, destroyed it. He took the coward's way out instead, and snatched the ball of twine and fled.

Even earlier, he had gifted it to a sweet, little girl. Funny how those gossamer threads kept stitching them all together, pulling them back in. It was time to come full circle, wasn't it?

Yes. Yes, it was.

Varric began to hum a song to himself as he collected Bianca from under the bed. The sun was shining outside. Crossbow strapped to his back, twine in his pocket, song on his lips, the little boy was no longer afraid.


	9. Chapter 9

It was amazing how quickly Ina's excitement dispersed once the long hours of travel wore on the girl. Little miracles, Varric told himself. It was a blessing that he'd gotten a solid half hour of her frenetic chatter before the whining and moping set in. The rest of the trip to Kirkwall mostly consisted of Ina draped limply over her pony while she whimpered about wanting her mummy.

Ina was also quite cross with Varric for his insistence that Anora be left behind. They'd made sure the mabari had three days worth of food left out and instructed her to protect the chickens in the coop. Varric only hoped that the pup didn't inevitably confuse what she was guarding with her food source.

When he would undoubtedly retell this story, he would leave out the travel. It made for better fiction when as soon as the hero realized what needed to be done, he was instantly where he needed to be. Reality didn't always play out in the reliable patterns of fabrication and it was less exciting to understand that the hero had plenty of travel time left to mull over enough maybes and what ifs to whittle away at his resolve.

One little, white knee popped out from underneath her skirts in a way that would have had her mother smoothing Ina's garments down. Varric smiled over his clenching gut. That's why he brought her; he couldn't just abandon a six year old if they all were going to die. Still, he couldn't help but think there were better options than to drag her straight into the heart of the storm.

Maybe it would pass; he wasn't quite old enough to tell weather with his bones just yet.

When they reached Kirkwall, the earth was kissed orange by the rising sun. Ina's sleeping breaths were interrupted by the plodding steps of her pony and Varric's back ached from the sheer monotony of travel. He doubted Ina remembered the land of her ancestors, but he thought it better to let her sleep than wake her for the view.

After spending so long in the country, he could smell the stone and earthiness of the steps and structures. It made him think of Bartrand in the throes of one of his many fits, as he spoke of Orzammar and how Varric would just never understand. Kirkwall may have been nice, but it would always smell wrong and be too bright. It would never be home to Bartrand.

Varric wished there were more people. The lack of bandits on the roadside was nice, until he considered it was because there was very little left of value in the city. A bar and a lot of templars. Even just a vendor with some sweet rolls for the kid would have been a relief. He had to start making plans for how to get back home when the pony was inevitably stolen from them.

In the past, Varric would smirk at the many agonized slaves that the monuments in the Gallows represented. He knew that ancient magisters commissioned them with the intent to break the spirit of any passersby. He was certain the magisters would have just loved his charming personality and sometimes, when he was feeling particularly cheeky, he'd blow a kiss to one of the more dismal stone faces in tribute. But now? Now he just hoped he could find Cullen before Ina woke.

Up the steps and toward the templar dormitories. He was close enough for impatience now. Soon the anxiety and excitement would overwhelm him and he wouldn't have to think anymore, just race to the alienage with Bianca in his hands and a song on his lips. Varric wasn't entirely sure of the tune yet, but the words would be something along the lines of, "Please don't kill me, I'm too pretty to die."

"You don't want to go that way, friend. Everybody's already gone to the alienage."

"So typical. Don't they know they can't have any fun without me?" The words left Varric's mouth before his brain caught up. He chuckled. It could have always been worse.

"I should have known I'd see you here, Varric." Anders was much less frantic than he had been seven years previous. He still couldn't grow a beard to save his life, however.

"I'm in a bit of a bind, Blondie," Varric said. He nodded to Ina flopped over on the pony. "I was hoping to stick her with Bethany so that I could get myself into some trouble."

"I may have made things worse for you then, I'm afraid," Anders said. "I got word that a group of mages was going to target the Kirkwall templars." His face softened as the girl began to stir. "And I'm tired, Varric. I didn't want to run anymore. I joined them thinking that someone might finally kill me."

"Are you volunteering me to be the lucky executioner?" Varric asked. "You've got shit timing, Blondie."

That got a small laugh out of him. "You have no idea. Not only was the Knight Commander away when we started attacking, I didn't know at the time Bethany was in there. When I saw her, I panicked."

Varric didn't like the laughter. He didn't like the way Anders shifted from leg to leg or the way he was staring at Ina. Varric casually walked over and made himself a wall between the two. "Where is Bethany now?"

"You mean after I turned on the mages and made a huge mess of things?" Anders shook his head. "Keran sent her to the alienage with a message for Cullen. You remember Keran, don't you? Maker you should have seen him in the thick of it. I never would have thought that boy would have been able to handle such carnage."

"Don't act surprised," Varric muttered. "You created this world. We just get to live in it."

Anders' smile tightened. "Did I mention I'm tired of feeling guilty, too?" he asked. "That's why I'm back. I'm here to fix things, to put an end to all this. It's the one thing Justice and I can finally agree on."

Ina's head bobbed up and she grimaced at their rising voices. Varric tried to soothe her with a head pat, but his movements were a bit too agitated and clunky to earn the response he was aiming for. "That's what I'm here for, too," Varric said. "And I don't need you getting all freaky glow-eyed on me in that place. There's too many people I care about at risk if you lose control."

"Varric, I can feel the Eluvian." There was a crackle of blue across Anders eyes and he blinked it away harshly with a shake of his head. "I can feel that bloody, stupid shard that Esther foolishly let you keep. I'm strong enough to stop this. Let me forfeit my life and keep you all safe."

Ina rubbed at her eyes. "Mummy?"

Anders had already turned around. He stalked off south, towards Lowtown and the alienage, his tatty brown cloak trailing behind. Varric bolted a few steps after him. "Anders!"

"No!" When he swung back around, Anders eyes were that brilliant lyrium blue and the full force of Justice raged in his voice. "You no longer belong here. Now, you take my child and put as many miles between her and this place as necessary to keep her safe!"

It took Ina's hand on his shoulder after Anders left for Varric to realize that he had Bianca out, aimed with his finger hovering just above the trigger. Varric exhaled and dropped the crossbow. Anders knew?

"Uncle Varric?"

He dragged a hand across his face. "Yeah, Sparky?"

"That was my dad." There wasn't so much a question in Ina's voice, more like a mild discontent.

"No, sweetheart," Varric told her. "That wasn't your dad. That was something entirely different."

"But..." Ina frowned. "I don't get it."

"Me neither." The noon sun was a blinding, yellow ball. Varric stared up at it until dots of white danced across his vision.

"Uncle Varric." Ina scooted and kicked her legs as she slid off the pony. "We have to find Mummy."

"Working on it." His shard. His fault. "I just have to think a second."

She pointed a finger down the steps toward Lowtown. "But he left!" Her skin began to flush pink and her voice wavered. "And he says Mummy is down there and if he finds her and we don't I-"

"Ina Beth, I can not take you to the alienage."

"But! But.." Ina was crying in earnest, now. She threw herself down on the stone steps and kicked and flailed in a way he hadn't seen since she was a toddler.

"Anders is right," Varric said. "You can't be there, Sparky. It's too dangerous."

When he placed a hand on her head, she took it as a cue to wrap her arms around his leg. "Please!" Ina's words were a cluttered mess interspersed with incoherent sobs. "You have to get her! I won't go anywhere, I promise, just bring her back! Bring her to me! I want Mummy! I want-!"

Varric pried her off his leg and knelt beside her. He couldn't believe the though he was entertaining. "Ina," he said. "Will you stay put if I go? Can you do that?"

"You're going to go?" She wiped her nose with the back of her hand and her eyes grew wide.

"This is serious," Varric said. "I will go, but you have to promise me that you will not move from this spot. No matter what. Can you do that?"

Ina nodded furiously. "I won't move."

"Ina."

"I promise!" A bubble of snot sat precariously in her left nostril.

"Stay with the pony," Varric told her. "And don't move. This will take a while."

Hawke would throttle him if she knew this was his ingenious plan. Leave a six year old in the care of a pony while he dashed off to whatever doom awaited in the alienage. After years of careful planning, it was pitiful to see how unprepared he was. It was difficult to remember why he had kept the shard in the first place. Hope, maybe. Or sheer stubbornness.

Ina stood, and aside from the hand she used to stroke the pony's mane, she stayed perfectly still. With the way her eyes were frozen on him, it made Varric think that she stood almost a bit too still. In a perfect world, she would do as asked and he wouldn't have to second guess her. In a perfect world, he wouldn't have been in this situation to begin with.

Varric slung his crossbow over his back and walked off before he could change his mind. Hawke certainly wouldn't wait for him to start all the fun.


	10. Chapter 10

Years ago, Varric had been angry. "Meet me in the alienage," she'd said. And when he did, everyone very nearly died.

Anders had razed the place to the ground, to ensure that no one would squat in the empty buildings after Cullen sealed the area off. Still, Varric had found his way back there once before, to tend to things that should have never been kept, and for closure.

Then he lost his nerve.

Funny, that he had to make his way back there, again. Every time, he always told himself it would be the last time. Strange, that what upset him the most was that it had been Merrill and not anyone else. He didn't like admitting it, but it was easier to anticipate the deaths of some more than others. Despite how heartbreaking, it would have been easier to digest Isabela improperly stacking the deck, or the valiant Guard Captain being felled by too many foes. Even the mighty Champion of Kirkwall not being able to smirk her way out of a situation made for a certain, rational sense.

Merrill had been different. She'd always been so sweet, naive and childlike, that despite her dangerous behavior, Varric had convinced himself that they could protect her, save her at the last moment. Maybe Fenris had the right of it, maybe killing her had been the kindest thing for her given the situation. That thought sat as poorly with Varric as the wistful nostalgia that slowed his pace toward the alienage.

They'd all left with scars. The day Merrill died was the day Isabela finally bought her ship. She'd been glib and crude, but when she grinned, it didn't crinkle the corners of her eyes. To him, that was sadder than the fact that he hadn't seen her since. Bethany may have been the more obvious tragedy as she opted for tranquility, but Varric had a sentimentality toward Isabela, his mirror reflection, the darling rogue who swallowed all her injuries.

The entrance way to the alienage still had the boards of wood the templars nailed across it. Red glowed faintly beyond the cracked and splintered wood, a sputtering and angry light. He wasn't sure if Justice blue or Fenris silver would have been better, but he had found the tune to his battle song; low, droning and just loud enough for his ears alone.

Things happened for a reason and it couldn't all be bad. Yes, Aveline's retirement was a forced one, and Donnic was quick to remind Varric that she couldn't bear the weight of her own children with that damaged shoulder thanks to them, but she was alive. Those two boys, or maybe three (it had been a while since they last talked,) were a blessing of sorts, with their flame red hair, ruddy cheeks and the way they made her smile when she thought no one was watching.

Tangled red hair, a gap toothed grin and scuffed knees. Ina had to have heard the fear in his voice when Varric made her promise. The vhenadahl in the center of the alienage was a blackened, scorched out husk of a mockery. Everything smelled of dirt and wet, rotting wood, it smelled like blood. It could never smell like honey or freesia or ale. Always blood.

Varric stepped over the shattered wooden barrier and cautiously edged down the steps and towards the red glow. The light was jagged and cut across the stone walkway in vicious patterns. What had Feynriel said? Broken mirrors were still mirrors.

Donal Amell sat, hunched and cross-legged in the dirt. The only recognizable thing left of Merrill's home was the dented chamber pot and part of her bed frame. The skeletal remains of the Eluvian stood before him, shard after shard of mirror being glued into place with the red light of Bartrand's artifact. The broken artifact piece hovered, an arms length in front of Donal. Varric dropped a hand to the shaft of his crossbow and the familiarity brought him comfort. He cleared his throat and gave Donal a wide berth.

"Hey, Gangles," Varric kept his voice calm and even. A tightly condensed spring pinched between two fingers. "What are you doing?"

"Varric?" Donal's head sunk lower toward his chin. He exhaled. "You know, before I left Ferelden, Cousland begged me to behave. His wife was more to the point; said that if I was going to do what she thought I was going to do, that I'd better be discreet because she'd want to execute me in private. The country still thinks I'm decent given that Blight nonsense."

Varric took a step closer to the other man. "Was the queen right?" he asked.

"She's always right," Donal replied. "Royal decree."

"I don't understand what you're doing," Varric said. Where were the others? Did they get caught up with what Anders started with the templars? Maybe Hawke was up in the gallows and she already found Ina. That would be nice. It lacked a certain theatricality, but it sure would be nice.

"You ever love someone?" Donal's words were pressured, awkward. The energy he was expending to control the artifact must have been incredible.

"Constantly. Always." So many times, but Varric had come to understand he was a glutton for punishment. Whether it was how Bianca smelled like harlot's blush, an odor that he sadly began to confuse with the scent of the lacquered bloodwood of his crossbow as the years passed, or how Bartrand would give a nod and little more when Varric did something amazing.

He had loved when Sebastian would say, "Maker watch over you" and legitimately mean it and Varric had loved how Bethany would first bite her lower lip when faced with an impossible task, then breathe a sigh and smile when he showed up and she knew she wouldn't have to face it alone. He loved the obscenity-laced gem that a drunken Isabela insisted was a Rivaini lullaby and he loved the tenacity that Aveline harnessed to shut the same drunken Isabela up.

Varric's hand drifted to the pocket that held the string. When he first gave it to Merrill, she'd spent the entire day tying up the whole of Lowtown. He'd had a lot of explaining to do to the angry vendors whose carts were connected with neat, little bows.

"Growing up in the Circle, I kind of had an extended adolescence," Donal said. The artifact piece wavered and dipped and he grunted. "We weren't granted a lot of privileges, but then were expected to behave like sane adults."

"This is how a sane adult behaves?" Varric asked. Where was Hawke?

Donal shook his head. "I only ever really loved one person. But I was a stupid, idiot, inexperienced man-child. All I did was make mistakes over and over again."

"Why don't you stop with the mistakes," Varric said. "Just step away from the mirror and we can all go home."

"You don't get it," Donal said. The mirror's reflection began to ripple and undulate. "Maybe you would if you saw her. If you knew her."

That was when the first dagger flew, high from the dead branches of the vhenadahl tree. It was a perfect shot, aimed straight for the largest piece of mirror in the center of the Eluvian, but the blade disintegrated as soon as it touched the red light.

"Oh, we get it, Donal," Hawke said. She hopped down from the branches and landed next to the tree's gnarled and exposed roots with a thud. "A woman for a city. It makes perfect sense if you're a selfish prat."

"How long were you going to leave me hanging, Hawke?" Varric asked. He pulled out his crossbow and loaded a bolt. "I was afraid you might be dead in a ditch somewhere."

"Me?" She laughed. "No, I was just doing that sneaky lurk in the shadow routine until I knew what I was facing. I was really hoping that he'd conveniently point out an off switch to his diabolical machine."

"A woman for a city, a woman for the world." Donal was breathing heavy and he muttered something unintelligible. "I don't want to bring her back, I want to join her. The world will heal; the world will forget about us."

"Wasn't that always our problem?" Anders asked. He stepped out past the dilapidated door frame of Feynriel's childhood home. "That I chose the world over you?"

There was a moment of hesitation from Hawke, then her eyes returned to Donal, cool and trained. "No, Anders. You chose slaughter. And you chose to involve me in it. A miniscule difference, I know, but it's there."

"I love heartwarming reunions," Donal said. "Now if Cullen and his friends could only stop hiding, we can get the celebrations underway. I do hope you brought tea and cakes, Cullen."

"I told you he saw us," Fenris grumbled as he, Cullen and Bethany emerged from behind a pile of debris.

"Yes, but it looks like we've some assistance, now," Cullen replied. He looked at Donal and shook his head. "Donal Amell. Have you really changed so much since the Ferelden Circle?"

Donal brought his hands together. "What about you, Cullen? Still paranoid and pining for the Surana girl?"

"As charming as ever, I see." Cullen sighed. "No, Donal, I can take a hint. When a lady is disinterested, I let her be, I don't rebuild an ancient portal tainted by demons and blood magic."

"I didn't use blood magic." Donal replied. "I can't stand blood magic. It leaves too obvious a trail for demons when you splatter pieces of yourself all over this world and the Fade for an incantation. This is just a bit I picked up from reading too many grimoires."

While Bethany stood there passively, Fenris already had his great sword unsheathed. Cullen stalled him with a look and tried again. "I can't allow you to complete whatever it is you're trying to accomplish. That eluvian is far too dangerous and if you fail-"

"But what if I succeed?" Donal pushed his hands through the air and the artifact piece drifted into the mirror.

The eluvian greedily sucked the artifact into itself and the reflective glass rippled like water. Hawke inched over to Varric, lowered her voice and tightened her smile. "My daughter, Tethras?"

"Safe," Varric told her.

"Good."

"No more games, Donal," Cullen said. "Away from the eluvian or you will be struck down."

"Fair enough." Donal hopped to his feet and raised his hands as he turned to face them. "I surrender. Do try to be gentle with me, kind sirs."

"I'd call bullshit," Varric whispered to Hawke, "if I weren't scared out of my mind."

Justice did it for them. The spirit tore through Anders' face and blotted out his eyes with blue light. The face may have been Anders', but the expressions were different and the voice wasn't his. "What machinations have you put into motion, mage?" Justice demanded. "The eluvian is reactivating."

"That's new," Donal said. He shot a glance to Cullen. "And you're worried about me?"

"He's not cooperating." Fenris' lyrium brands glinted silver as dusk settled upon them.

"Not really a fan of fighting in the dark, Hawke," Varric whispered.

"We did it before," she replied. He could remember, shadows dancing in the angry orange flames as the alienage burned. Not much of a comfort.

"I will not warn you again, Donal," Cullen said. He and Fenris both had their weapons trained on the mage.

"It's too late," Donal said. "Couldn't stop it now if I wanted. Pray that I'm right."

Varric's gaze was drawn to the mirror. There was a low hum resonating in a way that he could almost imagine the artifact and the whispers of song Bartrand raved about. The gentle lapping of red waves was beginning to slow and as they did, a figure was revealed in the glass. Large expanses of barely covered white skin, raven black hair and amber eyes. She was a looker, he had to give Donal that.

Donal was muttering, again. Quickly, deliberately and it made Varric's hackles raise. Fenris seemed to share Varric's sentiment and the elf swung his great sword down at the frail looking mage with such ferocity that it sent Donal sprawling back toward the eluvian despite the magical barrier he erected. On his back, he looked up and smiled at the face he saw in the mirror. "Hey there, you," Donal said.

"He stalled us with talk!" Justice fumed. Blue bolts of furious lightning burst from his hands and slammed into the barrier. "And you let him!"

"No one gets in," Donal said. "No one gets out. It's what I wanted."

"That's not so bad," Varric said. "Wouldn't it be nice if we were all overreacting?"

He nudged Hawke with his elbow and when that got no response, he glanced at her. Her eyes were as round as saucers. That's when he saw it, within the confines of the barrier.

Tangled red hair and little, scuffed knees. Hadn't he made himself clear? Ina's hands were splayed as she pressed them against the pearlescent blue of the barrier. Hawke quickly scrambled to the other side of the wall and began beating on it as hard as she could.

Donal hadn't noticed, yet, he was too enamored with his woman in the mirror. As he stared at her, his contented smile slowly turned into a frown. "It's not you, is it, love?" he said. "No, I suppose it wouldn't be, would it?"

Hawke was using her daggers on the barrier, and when that failed, she resorted to her fingernails. All the while, Bethany stood, detached, inhuman. Varric wondered if she could still be afraid. Ina began to cry over her mother's futile hysteria and torn fingernails.

Now Donal could see the child. His muttering grew to a string of audible obscenities as he frantically began to unweave the magic of the barrier. His arms swept in broad circles and Varric could feel the little hairs on the back of his neck stand erect as the filth that left Donal's mouth rapidly turned into a prayer.

"Containment," Cullen barked at Fenris and the elf nodded. The edges of the mirror bent and pushed outward as the woman inside the eluvian reached for their world.

The barrier was being unmade. As it dissipated, the blue grew paler and paler until it faded in its entirety. Varric shuddered as he made his way toward Hawke, toward Ina and he felt something bump against his leg. The ball of string had fallen from his pocket and was unraveling as it rolled across the ground.

It had all been so close. Had Donal reacted a second sooner, maybe two, maybe it would have been different. Hawke would have snatched her daughter up in her arms and regardless of what happened after, things would have been better.

Ina had her arms outstretched in anticipation. Mummy was there and Uncle Donal was doing his damnedest while Uncle Varric and Aunt Bethany stared on impotently. Varric saw the white hand, first. He saw it sink into the mass of red curls, he saw Ina's hazel eyes get covered with a film of radiating energy, black and tar-like, heard the unnatural pop as Ina's mouth fell open and the demon fully entered her body. Heard Hawke scream and scream and scream.

It was Merrill all over again.


	11. Chapter 11

Little Ina Beth Hawke knew how to make an entrance.

On one of her few visits, Aveline assured a heavily pregnant Esther Hawke to, "Breathe deep. Your body will do the rest." Perhaps pregnancy and motherhood brought a certain inner calm and strength for Aveline, but Hawke had no such luck. Varric had seen genlocks more dignified with how she moaned and writhed on the ground of their cottage when her labor began. He'd been relieved initially when she'd straightened out of her fetal position, but then she dropped her trousers and he could see the dark band of flesh leading from her navel down to her unspeakables and Varric fled from her bedroom and continued to coach her with a door between them.

As the sun rose and a fiery orange peeked through the windows, Varric could hear those piteous, mewling squalls and Hawke went from grunting to laughing. He waited outside the closed door until she called for him. The midwives never thought to mention the domestic carnage Varric observed when he reentered the room. Clothes were abandoned on the floor next to blood and fluids and he could see one muscular calf exposed in the twisted sheets on the bed. Matted clumps of Hawke's black hair were glued to her face with sweat and she cradled the new babe with both arms.

The kid looked a little worse for wear, all blotchy, squished cheeks, and her pink skin had been wiped down with Hawke's discarded blouse. Hawke giggled as the baby opened her eyes, that dark, infant blue that all newborns possessed. She stared, almost dazed, at her surroundings and Varric found himself smirking and wiggling his fingers at the child in a casual wave.

"My stomach is absolute rubbish," Hawke told him. "I'll never be able to look at myself naked, again."

"Does it have a name?" Varric asked. "Or am I going to have to make something up?"

"Destroyer of waistlines, devourer of Mother's good looks." In her exhausted state, Hawke didn't seem to care about her audience as she uncovered a breast and fed her child. "Worth it. Worth all of it. My sweetling, my Ina Beth."

Later, Hawke would joke that Varric had seen far too much of her and he'd always reply that he'd seen just enough. She was too embarrassed to realize that what he remembered more clearly about that day was the way she pulled that child close to her chest, how she stroked the little peach hairs on Ina's head and the way she pressed her lips against her daughter's forehead. There was an impishness about it all, a glee that Varric hadn't seen in a long while. The duties of the Champion had slowly begun to drain that spunk out of Hawke as time beat on.

Too late for Carver, too late for Leandra, too late for Anders, and now, too late for Ina. Varric wished that he could will the sun to stop setting. When he closed his eyes, he could see the decomposing hawk shift as the maggots ate more and more of it. Feynriel did warn him, but Varric had convinced himself that he could be a hero.

Of course, it made perfect sense now, in hindsight. Esther wasn't the only Hawke there, and who would be more vulnerable, an adult blade master or a six year old girl who still struggled to write her "r's" correctly? Varric reached over and harshly jerked Hawke away from the creature that wore her daughter's face. Hawke's head fell hard against his chest and he tightened his grip the more she screamed and the more she accused him of things that were mostly true.

"Oh, bad, bad choice," Donal murmured as he hedged closer to the demon.

The mage summoned a fierce gust of wind and sent Fenris back into a dilapidated wall just as the elf swung his great sword. Donal bared his teeth, but never turned his gaze from Ina's body. "Cullen, call your dog off," he demanded. "The lady and I need to have a chat."

"No deals can be made with demons," Cullen replied.

"No deals," Donal agreed. "But an explanation of options, sure. Anders, get your ponce ass over here."

"The demon must be destroyed," Justice said.

"Oh, really?" The way Ina's eyebrow lifted was too provocative for a child. "You'd really kill this body just to get at little, old me?"

The dark, honeyed tones that resonated from her daughter's throat gave Hawke a renewed frenzy and Varric had to cling to her desperately to keep her in one place. Anders, for his part, stayed silent, but his eyes turned brown and remained that way.

"Little? Doubtful," Donal said. "Old? Certainly. But as a demon of desire, dear, you've chosen a poor host."

"I disagree," the demon purred. She rubbed Ina's hands down her arms as she examined the new body. "This worked out very nicely."

"Why are demons always so obnoxious?" Donal muttered to no one in particular. He raised his voice as he addressed her. "Listen, you cocky twat, I was the one who called you here. You were attracted to all my wants and desires. The kid has nothing on me."

"I disagree," the demon repeated. "All the amazement, all the imagination. I'm quite fond of this one."

"Try my imagination on for size," Donal told her. "I think you'll be impressed with what I can come up with. A sloth demon tried it, once. I was too much for him to handle."

Ina's head shook slowly. "I don't think so," the demon said. "How many bloodlines is this child the offspring of? Her body is stronger than yours, it's also younger."

"Yeah, it's not ripe, yet."

"I'll take my chances."

"Wrong answer." Donal snapped his arms together and Ina's body jerked under the crushing weight of his magic. "It's not strength you need right now, sweetheart, it's know how."

"Oh?" The demon still managed to sound smug, despite being pinned in place by nothing.

"And I know," Donal said, "that children tire so quickly. So perhaps she'd be a good long term investment, but you don't have long, do you? You have an exhausted body that you didn't broker a fair deal with."

And with that, the smugness was gone. The demon glowered and hissed. Donal blew her a kiss.

"Donal Amell!" Cullen was at the mage's side. "What are you doing?"

"You should have just crawled back on through that mirror, huh?" Donal said. "But no, demons always have to be difficult about everything. It's going to be the Guerrin boy all over again, Cullen."

"What?"

"How much lyrium do you have?" Donal asked. "Please tell me you have lyrium."

"Enough for myself," Cullen replied. "Donal-"

"Andraste's tits." Donal's head tilted up toward the sky and he grimaced. "It always comes down to blood magic, doesn't it, Cullen?"

"Make sense," Cullen ground out.

"Hawke, your dagger, please." Donal outstretched a hand. "We won't need as much blood this time, because the demon broke the rules. You don't take a person in the waking world and you especially don't do it without making a deal, first."

"I'll make a deal." The richness left the demon's voice and for a second, she almost sounded like Ina. "Give it time."

"Shut up!" Donal snapped. "Oh no, no, no you don't! I can get her out. I've got all the kind words, rituals and blood necessary, but are we ready for the bad news?"

Anders attention was rapt, but he was too nervous to speak. He kept a sharp eye on Fenris and settled for raking his hands through his hair. The elf didn't move, but his sword was drawn and poised to strike.

"He can help her?" Hawke's voice was muffled and gaspy against Varric's chest. "I swear, Donal Amell if you are toying with us-"

"Bad news?" Cullen asked.

"I can call the demon out," Donal said. "But I need to put her somewhere."

Cullen gestured at the eluvian. "Put her back in the mirror."

"That she'll immediately escape, again?" Donal shook his head. "Let me clarify. I need to put her in someone."

"Absolutely not," Fenris said. He stormed over to Cullen. "This is the solution? Offer up a sacrificial lamb? For what?"

Hawke pushed herself away from Varric. "I'll do it," she said.

"Hawke," Varric began.

"Easiest decision I've ever made," she replied. She even had the audacity to wink at him.

"I obviously wasn't clear enough." Worry lines creased deep across Donal's forehead. "The most suitable host would be someone whose connection to the Fade was severed. That way the demon would slowly starve to death."

He tried not to, but Varric couldn't help but stare at Bethany. She was still pretty, despite the mark on her forehead, despite the dead eyes.

"So we put the demon in Bethany, it dies and then we all go out for drinks," Hawke said.

Donal closed his eyes. "It's not so simple."

"Anytime a demon perishes within a host, the host will also die," Anders said. "Correct?"

"Correct," Cullen breathed.

Hawke frowned. "But..."

"It's a sound plan," Bethany said.

"No..." Hawke shook her head furiously. "No."

"I submitted to the rite of tranquility so that you would not have to kill me," Bethany said. "So that you would not suffer. You are suffering."

Hawke's head wouldn't stop shaking back and forth. "It's not fair."

"Blood magic never is," Donal said.

"Shut up!" Hawke's red rimmed eyes narrowed around that electric blue. "This is all your fault! If you hadn't-"

"What?" Donal asked. His thin lips formed a line as he pressed them together. "If I hadn't left you both safely at home without any indication of where I left you wouldn't have followed me? I believe that's what I did. I'm making right now, Mum."

"It's okay." Bethany blinked slowly. "It's what I would have wanted. I think. I am at peace."

"Bullshit, bullshit, bullshit." The intensity began to leave Hawke's words. She walked to Bethany's side, fell to her knees and hugged her sister around the waist. Hawke buried her face in Bethany's stomach.

The demon began to squirm, but Donal's restraints held strong. In the fading daylight, it almost looked like Ina, a struggling, antsy child. But then Varric squinted his eyes and there was no denying it. The way her eyebrows lifted or the way she pouted her mouth, Ina was gone.

"I can't believe I'm hearing this," Fenris said. "Mages always think blood magic is the answer."

"It's not." Donal clenched his hand into a fist and the demon's struggles were abruptly interrupted. "But do you have a better solution?"

"We know what must be done," was all Fenris would say.

"I read the reports on Redcliffe Castle and the Guerrin child," Cullen said. "Do you know what you're doing, Donal? I don't want to sacrifice a life needlessly."

Donal grinned a flash of his crooked teeth. "I learn from my mistakes."

"You can't be serious," Fenris said. "You of all people. I won't stand idly by while you allow this."

"I don't expect you to," Cullen replied. "Head back to the Gallows and check in with Ser Keran. See if everything is in order or if he needs your help."

Fenris' eyes narrowed and for a brief, infinite moment, the two men stared each other down. Finally, Fenris offered the Knight Commander a curt nod and vanished into the night.

"You never cease to surprise me, Cullen," Anders murmured.

That got a smile from the templar that made Varric wish they could have been drinking partners. "Don't ever think I would do this just for you," Cullen said. "Hawke, understand I can not condone this ritual. I will not interfere, but I will not help. I'm simply here to watch in case something goes wrong."

Hawke pulled herself away from her sister long enough to say, "Thank you."

"The night's not yet over," Cullen replied.

"Are you sure about this?" Hawke asked. She stood and pressed her forehead against Bethany's.

"It appears to be the right thing to do," Bethany said. The lack of intonation made Hawke's mouth twist. Varric could see her nostrils flair as she tried to calm herself.

"You'll say hi to Carver for me?" she said.

Bethany blinked. "And Father and Mother."

"We need to start, folks," Donal warned.

So Varric brought him a dagger as Hawke openly wept by the dead vhenadahl tree. Bethany stood in line with Ina and Donal slashed open his hands with the borrowed blade. He uttered things in a language Varric couldn't recognize and the demon within Ina threatened and bluffed and then screamed and begged and whimpered.

Varric was numb. Maybe someday, he'd be able to romanticize it, how a brave young woman sacrificed again and again for the love of her sister. Right now he was too attached and couldn't get beyond stupid kids and how the universe was never fair.

"I don't like this," Anders said to him. "It feels all wrong."

"I'm out of ideas, Blondie," Varric said. "I just want to get drunk and forget."

"I can't let this happen." The violet light of Donal's magic reflected a glittering stream running down Anders' cheek, caught and broken by the stubble of his beard. Maybe it was just the darkness of night, but his eyes seemed to be the deepest brown that Varric had ever seen them. "If I died, it would be acceptable, expected even. But not this. Never this."

"Don't make this any harder than it is already."

"I never, I just..." Anders nodded to himself. "I have an idea."

Donal had pried Desire from Ina's now limp form. He looked ashen as he cut himself again and his blood surged up to form a walkway of effervescent light that led from Ina to Bethany. The horned demon, frozen in the air, drifted from the child and toward the tranquil woman.

"Blondie?" Varric said. "Anders!"

Anders laughed. "You can't protect me anymore."

And with that, he bolted away from Varric and threw himself in between Bethany and the demon.

_*For those interested, chapters 30 and 31 of "Wardens" deals with the blood ritual at Redcliffe Castle and how it didn't exactly go according to plan. The document editor ate my copy/paste formatting. I tried to go in and fix it, but may have missed some, so if two paragraphs are smashed together or there's a sentence that's missing, let me know and I'll fix it. _


	12. Chapter 12

The light. That's what Varric remembered most clearly. Bold, insistent, like staring at the sun. The little white dots danced across his vision and knocked him right on his backside. He liked to think Hawke was screaming something or that Cullen was racing toward the clump of mages, but if he were perfectly honest, Varric couldn't hear or see clearly enough to reliably report.

Ina was laughing. The light had started purple, faded to lavender, then grew hot white, until it dispersed and sprinkled over them like flower petals. When he'd gathered his senses, Varric could see Bethany. Placid, calm Bethany. She stood, untouched, tears streaming down her face as she stared at the collapsed forms of Donal, Anders and Ina. She'd scooped up her niece and Hawke scrambled toward them.

"She's breathing!" That's when he heard it. The panic, the anxiety. It was all so beautifully in Bethany's voice.

"Bethany?" Hawke was running her hands over her child, they pawed for injuries, scanned for life. Lyrium blue eyes blinked and then she ran a thumb across her sister's tear-streaked face.

"I can feel it," Bethany said. "The magic and the Fade and her little heart beating and Maker, she's breathing! Please, let her be okay."

And as Bethany held Ina, Hawke crushed them both in a hug. She froze there, awestruck and clinging to them both. Hawke, Varric thought, had the luxury of time. Time to cherish, time to reflect. Bethany, thankfully, seemed to know what a gift that moment was as she laughed and cried and showered her sister's face with as many kisses as she could muster before her eyes dulled once more with tranquility.

Idle, precious chatter and then nothing. Anora barked and Ina squealed. Varric grimaced. Somehow, if he closed his eyes, he could pretend he was being covered with flower petals as opposed to the less glamorous sprinkling of freshly torn grass.

On his back, Varric brushed the grass off his face. "Shoo, kid," he grumbled. "You're bothering me."

"Nuh uh!" Ina stuck her tongue out, but following a yip from Anora, she took off toward the pond.

Varric closed his eyes and took in the warmth of the sun on his face. He breathed in the smell of dirt and grass and wildflowers. "She's putting on a show for you, you know," he said.

"I had hoped that was the case," Anders said.

Anora had sunk her teeth into the hem of Ina's skirt and dragged the girl down to the ground. Ina's indignant squawks turned into hysterical laughter as the mabari covered her in wet, sloppy dog kisses. The dog's short, stump of a tail wagged ecstatically.

"Little miracles," Varric murmured. He pulled his hands up behind his head and stretched out on the ground. "She can't remember that night at all."

"Good." Anders followed his daughter with his eyes. He didn't move from his spot, seated in the grass.

"When are you leaving?" Varric asked.

"Soon," Anders replied. "As soon as I can pull myself away from all of this."

Concern for Ina had taken precedence. It had taken several moments for them to notice Anders moaning on the ground or Donal Amell and the way he lay too still.

"Oh, no you don't!" Cullen reached Donal first and flipped him face up. Gangle's pale skin looked like crumpled parchment. Cullen shook him. "You don't get to die, you don't get to take the easy way out!"

"Here." Half conscious and wheezing, Anders still managed to crawl toward the other two men. Healing, blue light sputtered and fizzled from his hand. Blondie inhaled deep and tried again.

Donal's chest rattled and he whimpered. "Hate blood magic," was all he could force out between his agonized groans.

"Andraste's grace, you will live and answer for all of this," Cullen told him.

Gangles was done talking. He reached up and gripped Cullen's hand in his and held tight. Cullen shook his head, but his gaze softened.

There should have been a torch lit. That had been the only clear and continuous thought in Varric's head. If there was a torch lit, they'd be able to see Anders' eyes, see his expressions, without getting too close. As it was, Blondie sat panting near Donal and Cullen. Anders gaze lingered on them a moment, then traveled to Ina and then back again.

"She's beautiful," Anders said it then, and he said it now.

And smart and spoiled and sweet and a right pain in the arse. Ina's arms flailed up to emphasize something. She was covered in mud and muck from the edge of the pond.

"What'd you think she was going to look like?" Varric asked.

"Not this perfect." Anders pulled his knees to his chest and laughed. "Although the poor dear has me to thank for that frizz head."

And you to thank for her Aunt Bethany and Uncle Donal, Varric thought. "You should see her try to smirk like Hawke," he snorted. "She looks a little too much like some other mage to get it right."

"That poor girl." A joke, probably, that Anders was the butt of.

He looked fine. He'd finally shaved that pathetic excuse of a beard and pulled his hair back away from his face. It wasn't quite the golden that Varric remembered, but age had been kind to Anders. Instead of the stray, angry streak of white he'd seen in Hawke, Anders' blonde hair just grew paler and paler until one day it would be nothing but white. There were a few worry creases on his forehead; Varric wished the smile lines had been deeper.

"Are you sure?" Varric blurted out. "It doesn't look like there's anything wrong with you."

"Right now, nothing is, I suppose," Anders said. He hugged his knees. "But you saw what happened. You know better than anyone not to trust that."

He did know. He saw the demon touch Anders, forehead to forehead, and fade into him. Varric saw Anders' eyes swell black, then flash blue and merge purple before they returned to brown.

"Yeah, that won't give me nightmares or anything," Varric said, although in truth, the more harrowing nightmares had subsided in favor of the more mundane, like showing up to the Hanged Man without pants. "Blondie, did you..?"

"I made a deal," Anders said. "So far it's been very beneficial. But I expect that will eventually change."

"Do you know if there's ever been anyone else?" Varric wasn't sure of the wording, of how to be tactful. Beneath him, the grass was soft and it could have been any other day. "Like you?"

Anders shook his head. "I haven't come across any texts that speak of two Fade creatures within one host. But I'm sure stranger things have happened."

"Such as?"

"Give me a moment; I'll think of something."

They chuckled and just enjoyed the sunshine. Down by the pond, Anora ran circles around a panting and breathless Ina.

"It's quiet now," Anders said. "I feel alone in my own head. I can't remember the last time I felt that way. I think it's because Justice and Desire have polar opposite goals."

"I don't know." Varric scratched his chest. "You could have a burning desire for justice."

"Don't say that!" Anders hands shook as he raked them across his face. He laughed. "That's what I'm afraid of. I believe that if one kills the other, then I'll also die and take them both with me to the grave. That stops them from fighting to the death. It's quiet because they're looking for dominance and are at an impasse."

"But?" Varric asked.

Anders nostril flared and his mouth twisted into something that wasn't a smile. "But what if they work out a compromise?"

Ina had wrapped her arms around Anora's neck and chest and the mabari licked all over her face.

"Nothing like being a walking time bomb," Varric said.

"I forgot how pleasant you are," Anders muttered. "You always evoke such lovely images."

"It's what I do." There was some sort of insect, cricket maybe, creeping its way through the grass. If Varric listened closely, he could hear the slow,steady moves of its tarsus and mandibles as it pushed aside a single blade of grass. "How much time do you have?"

"Don't know." Anders' gaze was locked on Ina. "Maybe they'll never work it out and I'll live my life as Anders the mage. Maybe they'll make a deal in the next five minutes."

Varric wasn't sure what to say. He sat up. "I could use a drink," he said. "You think Hawke will read my mind and bring us drinks?"

"No." Anders had a sour expression. "She's making supper."

"Oh."

"Avoiding me."

"Ah."

"We said our piece." Anders exhaled and shifted on the grass.

"And?" Varric asked. "What happened?"

Blondie laughed. "Not for your stories," he said. "I can't blame her for leaving, it was probably the right thing to do. Which is why I want you to do it, again."

"What?" Varric pushed himself up to a sitting position. "Don't take this the wrong way, Blondie, but nice little cottages with ponds and chicken coops don't just appear with a wish and a smile. It took quite a few favors to secure this place."

"I'm going to go to Tevinter," Anders said. "If there's anyone who can help me, they'll be in Tevinter. But you can't stay here, because I know where this place is, now. Desire knows I want Esther and Justice tells me that Ina is mine. You've kept them safe from everything else, now I need you to keep them safe from me."

"No pressure," Varric muttered. "Yeah. I can do that."

Hawke had been fierce. In the dark, her face was streaked with red and shadows as she stormed over to Anders. She thrust Ina at him and Hawke's jaw tightened.

"Heal her!" Hawke demanded. "Do nothing for me ever again, but you bring my daughter back to me."

Anders blinked and brought his hand up. He slid his palm against the girl's forehead and dragged his hand through her red hair. Ina squeezed her eyes shut and shrugged his hand away. "She's just unconscious," he murmured. "There's nothing to do. She's perfect, she's healthy, she's wonderful."

With that, Hawke snatched Ina back as the child came to. Anders watched from afar, dazed. Afterwards, things happened with a plodding certainty that was usually reserved for stories that ended in "happily ever after." Cullen left with Donal and Bethany, but not before he informed Anders that his men would be instructed to kill Blondie on sight. Anders accepted it with a nod and after a grudging, "Fine," from Hawke, followed her and Varric home. Somewhere in between, the sun rose and Ina woke.

That night, Varric slept, a dreamless, black calm. He liked that, the calm. It was nice, the feeling that the worst was past them. That was of course, until the next calamity arose, but Varric figured they were due another several years of peace and obscurity until that point. For now, it was just sunshine and sweet grass.

"I miss Esther terribly," Anders told him. "But I have her love. That will be enough."

A pretty sentiment. Varric grunted in agreement. He'd be interested in hearing Hawke's version.

Varric settled back down on the grass and closed his eyes. He wasn't sure how he'd tell the story just yet. He'd need a belly full of ale, certainly, maybe something creamy and Orlesian. The Champion of Kirkwall faltered and was afraid, and the Chantry's Blight tried to make amends; it had all the right elements if spun correctly.

By the time supper was ready, Anders had left and the sun dipped beneath the horizon. The air was crisp with the onset of night and it sent the little hairs on Varric's arms shooting upwards. Ina and Anora galloped toward him as he stood.

Ina swung her arms out at him. "I'm the queen of Orlais and I eat frogs!"

"Empress," Varric said. "And I think you mean foie gras."

"I'm queen," Ina declared. "I'll eat whatever I want."

"I suppose you can." He directed her toward the cottage. The smell of meat and garlic lingered in the air. "It smells like mutton stew to me. Would that suit her royal highness?"

Ina scrunched her face up as she thought. "Yeah, okay." She nodded.

"Good," he replied with a grin. "That, we can do."


End file.
